
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. E 2 3Copyright N o . 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 













Stepping «£ *£ 
Heaheritoard 


B y 

ELIZABETH PRENTISS. 



T o which is prefixed 
a Sketch by her 
Husband of the 
Book and its 
Author. 




NEW EDITION WITH PORTRAIT 


Asbury 'Park , N. J. : M.,W.& C. Pennypacker 



TWo copies pee 


UEJl V EJ, 


LJLi-&ry of 

W fflce g f tb« 

APR 2 6 1800 

ftegtsttr cf Copyrights, 


Copyrighted 1 869, 1880, and 
1 897, by George I*. Prentiss. 

Copyright 1900 
BY G. L. PRENTISS, 

Entered at Stationers’ Hall. 

All rights reserved. 



57G18 


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ScCOND GOHY, 


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B Sketch of the Butbor. 


I. 

Elizabeth Prentiss was born at Portland, 
Maine, October 26, 1818. Her father, the Rev. 
Edward Payson, D. D., is still held in remem- 
brance as one of the best and most gifted 
men of his generation. He was a graduate of 
Harvard College, became pastor of the Second 
Parish in Portland in his twenty-fourth year, 
and died there, after a ministry full of spiritual 
power and blessing, in the forty-fifth year of 
his age. Just before his departure, in the midst 
of agonizing bodily sufferings, he wrote to his 
sister : 

Were I to adopt the figurative language of Bunyan, 
I might date this letter from the land of Beulah. The 
celestial city is full in my view. Its glories beam upon 
me, its breezes fan me, its odors are wafted to me, its 
sounds strike upon my ear, and its spirit is breathed 
into my heart. Nothing separates me from it but the 
river of death, which now appears but an insignificant 
rill that may be crossed at a single step whenever God 
shall give permission. 


(i) 


11 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Elizabeth, who was nine years old when her 
father died, tenderly cherished his memory and 
felt the influence of his extraordinary faith and 
piety in all her religious life. The influence of 
her mother, Ann Louisa Shipman, of New 
Haven, was also very great in shaping her own 
character. Mrs. Payson was the impersonation 
of womanly energy, brightness, generosity 
and good sense. Some of the most strik- 
ing traits of Katy’s mother, in Stepping 
Heavenward, were drawn, no doubt, from 
Mrs. Prentiss’ recollections of her own mother. 
Her intellectual training she owed largely to 
her sister Louisa, who, later, married Professor 
Albert Hopkins of Williams College and was 
widely known as a religious writer, and also 
by her scholarly Review articles on Goethe, 
Lessing and Claudius. While yet a young girl 
Elizabeth may be said to have begun her lit- 
erary career as a frequent contributor to The 
Youth's Companion , whose founder, Mr. Na- 
thaniel Willis, was an intimate friend of the 
Payson family. 

In April, 1845, Miss Payson was married to 
the Rev. George L. Prentiss, pastor of the South 
Trinitarian Church in New Bedford, Mass. Five 
years later he was called to the Second Presbyte- 
rian Church, in Newark, N. J.; then to the 
Mercer-street Presbyterian Church, and, later 
still, to the Church of the Covenant in New 


A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR . 


ill 


York. This city became thus Mrs. Prentiss’ 
home during the rest of her days. Here some 
of her strongest and most delightful friendships 
were formed ; here she passed through many 
of her deepest experiences of life — experiences 
full of grief and suffering, full also of sweetness, 
domestic bliss and joy unspeakable ; and here 
chiefly she wrote the books which have made her 
name so dear to myriads of little children and to 
myriads of Christian women — especially to suf- 
fering, careworn wives and mothers — wherever 
the English tongue is spoken. Among the best 
known of these books, besides Stepping Heaven- 
ward, are Tittle Susy’s Six Birthdays and its 
companions, Henry and Bessie, The Flower of 
the Family, Little Lou’s Sayings and Doings, 
The Little Preacher, Nidworth and His Three 
Magic Wands, The Percys, Gentleman Jim, The 
Story Lizzie Told, The Six Little Princesses, 
Fred and Maria and Me, Aunt Jane’s Hero, 
The Home at Grey lock, Pemaquid, Urbane and 
His Friends, and Golden Hours. 

Of her religious character the key-note is 
given in her hymn, More Love to Thee, O 
Christ. This hymn, which has passed into 
nearly all the later collections, expresses her 
ruling passion in life and in death. Writing to 
a young friend from Dorset, in 1873, she says : 

To love Christ more, this is the deepest need, the 
constant cry of my soul. Down in the bowling-alley, 


IV 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


and out in the woods, and on my bed, and out driving, 
when I am happy and busy, and when I am sad and idle, 
the whisper keeps going up for more love, more love, 
more love ! 

In a letter to a friend, dated March 27, 1870, 
she says : 

I am glad you liked that hymn. I write in verse when- 
ever I am deeply stirred, because, though as full of tears 
as other people, I cannot shed them. But I never showed 
any of these verses to any one, not even to my husband, 
till this winter. I have felt about hymns just as you say 
vou do ; as if I loved them more than the Bible. But I 
have got over that. I prayed myself out of it — not loving 
hymns the less, but the Bible more. I wonder if you 
sing ; if you do I will send you a hymn to sing for my 
sake, called More Love to Thee, O Christ. There is not 
much in it, but you can put everything in it if you 
make it your prayer. 

The hymn was written in 1856, in a season 
of great anxiety and suffering. It was then 
thrown aside and forgotten. After fourteen 
years she showed it to me and was persuaded to 
let a few copies be printed for distribution 
among a few of our friends. It had been 
written so hastily that the closing stanza was 
left unfinished. This hymn was, so to say, 
the blossom which flowered into Stepping 
Heavenward. I am sure, therefore, that the 
lovers of that book will be glad to see a fac 
simile of the original. Here it is : 


A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 

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STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


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The handwriting of the line added in 1870 
indicates how long a time had passed since the 
hymn was written. But though printed in 1870, 
it was not given to the public until several years 
later. After Mrs. Prentiss’ death, through the 
kindness of American missionaries, I received 
copies of it translated into Arabic, Chinese 
and various other languages of the Orient. I 
will give one of them. Here is a fac simile of 
the Arabic version : 




A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR . 


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More Love to Thee O Christ. 



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VI 11 


.S' TEPPING HE A VEN WARD. 


An important incident in Mrs. Prentiss’ life 
was a residence of two and a half years abroad, 
chiefly in Switzerland, between 1858-61. An- 
other, still more important, was the building of 
a country home in Dorset, Vt., wdiere she spent 
her last ten summers. It would be hard to 
imagine anything more real or more ideal than 
one of her Dorset summers. The place itself 
is exceeding lovely, and when, early in June, 
she appeared with her children, the mountain 
valley seemed clothed with sudden brightness. 
Men, women and children told each other that 
they had seen her, accompanied by her young- 
est daughter, in the little phaeton, driving Coco 
or Shoofly again round Kent Square, past East 
Rupert to Hager’s Brook, up the Hollow, 
through Covers’ Lane and West Road in 
quest of ferns, or on the way to Manchester 
Street. She had a sort of fascination for all 
sorts and conditions of people. A queer old 
fellow, known by everybody as ’Rastus, and 
helping her at times in her flower-beds, used to 
announce his presence, much to her amusement, 
by calling out under the window of her chamber, 
“ Hollo ! Hollo ! ” But her .special delight was 
to meet and have a talk with “ Uncle Isaac,” the 
patriarch of the town, who loved to watch her 
passing to and fro on her mountain tramps. He 
was a typical Vermonter of Revolutionary stock. 
The celebration of his centennial in 1879 was 


A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


IX 


the most striking observance of the sort I ever 
witnessed. Near the grove where it took place 
were five hundred carriages from far and near. 
Shortly after Mrs. Prentiss’ death, I drove past 
his house with her eldest brother, Edward Pay- 
son, Esq., of Portland. Uncle Isaac accosted us 
in his usual cheery way, and on learning that my 
companion was a brother of Mrs. Prentiss, turned 
to him and recalled various instances in which 
he had seen her climbing through the fences 
laden with wild flowers. He then expressed 
his tender sympathy with me in my sorrow, 
adding, ‘ ‘ She was the most wonderful woman 
in this town, and you will never get another 
like her ! ’ ’ 

On revisiting Dorset I have seemed always to 
breathe the very atmosphere of ‘ ‘ Stepping Hea- 
venward.” The mountains, the valley, the 
brooks and river, Eovers’ Dane, the village lawn 
and church are all associated with the book. 
Here its closing chapters were written. Here 
I talked over with her some of its principal 
scenes and lessons ; and here by a happy inspi- 
ration in the wakeful midnight hour, she named 
it Stepping Heavenward, linking it thus with 
her favorite poet, and revealing, as by a flash, 
her high aim in writing it. And here, on its 
publication, it became at once enshrined in the 
hearts of a goodly company of loving friends 
and neighbors. One of them, writing years 


X 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


later from the Pacific coast, thus depicted the 
Dorset life : 

For seven successive summers I saw more or less of her 

in this “ earthly paradise,” as she used to call it 

She brought to that little hamlet among the hills a sweet 
and wholesome and powerful influence. While her time 
was too valuable to be wasted in a general sociability, she 
yet found leisure for an extensive acquaintance, for a 
kindly interest in all her neighbors, and for Christian 
work of many kinds. Probably the weekly meeting for 
Bible-reading and prayer, which she conducted, was her 
closest link with the women of Dorset : but these meet- 
ings were established after I had bidden good-bye to the 
dear old town, and I leave others to tell how their “hearts 
burned within them as she opened to them the Scrip- 
tures.” 

She had in a remarkable degree the lovely feminine 
gift of home-making. She was a true decorative artist. 
Her room when she was boarding and her home after it 
was completed were bowers of beauty. Every walk over 
hill and dale, every ramble by brookside or through 
wildwood, gave to her some fresh home-adornment. 
Some shy wild-flower or fern, or brilliant tinted leaf, a 
bit of moss, a curious lichen, a deserted bird’s nest, a 
strange fragment of rock, a shining pebble, would catch 
her passing glance and reveal to her quick artistic sense 
possibilities of use which were quaint, original, charac- 
teristic. One saw from afar that hers was a poet’s home ; 
and if permitted to enter its gracious portals, the first 
impression deepened into certainty. There was as strong 
an individuality about her home, and especially about her 
own little study, as there was about herself and her writ- 
ings. A cheerful, sunny, hospitable Christian home ! Far 
and wide its potent influences reached, and it was a beau- 
tiful thing to see how many another home, humble or state- 


A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR . 


xi 


ly, grew emulous and blossomed into a new loveliness. 
Mrs. Prentiss was naturally a shy and reserved woman, 
and necessarily a pre-occupied one. Therefore she was 
sometimes misunderstood. But those who knew her 
best, and were blest with her rare intimacy, knew her as 
“ a perfect woman, nobly planned.” Her conversation 
was charming. Her close study of nature taught her a 
thousand happy symbols and illustrations, which made 
both what she said and wrote a mosaic of exquisite com- 
parisons. Her studies of character were equally constant 
and penetrating. Nothing escaped her; no peculiarity 
of mind or manner failed of her quick observation, but it 
was always a kindly interest. She did not ridicule that 
which was simply ignorance or weakness, and she saw 
with keen pleasure all that was quaint, original or strong, 
even when it was hidden beneath the homeliest garb. 
She had the true artist’s liking for that which was simple 
and genre. The common things of common life appealed 
to her sympathies and called out all her attention. It 
was a real, hearty interest, too — not feigned, even in a 
sense generally thought praiseworthy. Indeed, no one 
ever had a more intense scorn of every sort of feigning. 
She was honest, truthful , genuine to the highest degree.* 

In Dorset, on the thirteenth of August, 1878, 
after a brief illness, she entered into the joy of 
her Lord. I never knew any one who looked 
death in the face with an assurance more 
perfect or with greater joy than she did. 
There is a passage in The Home at Greylock, 
which was evidently inspired by her own ex- 
perience. It is where old Mary, when her 
first burst of grief was over, said : 


*Mrs. Frederick Field. 


Xll 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Sure, she’s got her wish and died sudden. She was 
always ready to go, and now she’s gone. Often’s the 
time I’ve heard her talk about dying, and I mind a time 
when she thought she was going, and there was a light 
in her eye — “what d’ye think of that ? ” says she. I de- 
clare it was just as she looked when she says to me, 
“Mary, I’m going to be married, and what d’ye think 
of that ? ” says she. 

We like to be told how those who have en- 
deared themselves to us by their writings, looked 
while still in the flesh. Here is a pen-picture 
of Mrs. Prentiss, drawn by one of her most 
gifted and beloved friends : 

Her face defied both the photographer’s and the 
painter’s art. She was of mediu^i height, yet stood and 
walked so erect as to appear taller than she really was. 
She was perfectly natural, and, though shy and reserved 
among strangers, had a quiet, easy grace of manner that 
showed at once deference for them and utter uncon- 
sciousness of self. Her head was very fine and admir- 
ably poised. She had a symmetrical figure, and her step 
to the last was as light and elastic as a girl’s. When I 
first knew her, in the flush and bloom of young mater- 
nity, her face scarcely differed in its curving outline from 
what it was more than a quarter of a century later, when 
the joys and sorrows of full-orbed womanhood had 
stamped upon it indelible marks of the perfection they 
had wrought. Her hair was then a dark brown ; her 
forehead smooth and fair, her general complexion rich 
without much depth of color except upon the lips. In 
silvering her clustering locks time only added to her 
aspect a graver charm, and harmonized the still more 
delicate tints of cheek and brow. Her eyes were black, 


A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


xm 


and at times wonderfully bright and full of spiritual 
power, but they were shaded by deep, smooth lids which 
gave them when at rest a most dove-like serenity. Her 
other features were equally striking ; the lips and chin 
exquisitely moulded and marked by great strength as 
well as beauty. Her face, in repose, wore the habitual 
expression of deep thought and a soft earnestness , like a 
thin veil of sadness which I never saw in the same degree 
in any other. Yet when animated by interchange of 
thought and feeling with congenial minds, it lighted up 
with a perfect radiance of love and intelligence, and a 
most beaming smile that no pen or pencil can describe, 
least of all in my hand, which trembles when I try to 
sketch the faintest outline.* 

Before closing this part of my sketch I will 
say a word about Mrs. Prentiss’ writings from 
the literary point of view, Her books w^ere 
warmly praised for their high aim and their use- 
fulness, but little else was said about them. 
This always struck me with some surprise. A 
few months before her death she received a letter 
from her old friend Mr. J. Cleveland Cady, the 
distinguished architect, thanking her for The 
Home at Greylock. In the course of this 
letter occurred the following passage : 

Though you cared less about the manner than the 
matter, I was impressed by its literary qualities. The 
scene at the death of Mrs. Grey, and parting of herself 
and Margaret, is as highly artistic and beautiful as any- 
thing I can think of. The contrast of good and bad, or 
good and indifferent, is common enough ; but the con- 

*Mrs. Horace B. Washburn, herself one of the best, as well 
as brightest and loveliest, of women. 


XIV 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


trast of what is noble and what is “saintly,” is some- 
thing infinitely higher and subtler. I cannot imagine 
anything more exquisitely tender and beautiful than 
Mrs. Grey’s departure, but it is the more realized by the 
previous action of Margaret. The few lines in which 
this is told bring: their whole character — in each case — 
vividly before you. But I .see that if the book previously 
to this point had been differently written it would have 
been impossible to have rendered the scene so remark- 
ably impressive. The story of “Eric” is extremely 
quaint and charming ; it is a vein I am not familiar with 
in your writings. It is a little classic. The quaint child’s 
story and the death of Mrs. Grey affect me as a fine work 
of art affects one, whenever I recall them. The trite 
saying is still true, “ a thing of beauty is a joy forever.” 

Here is a part of Mrs. Prentiss’ reply : 

Your letter afforded me more satisfaction than I know 
how to explain. It is true that I made up my mind, as 
a very young girl, to keep out of the way of literary peo- 
ple, so as to avoid literary ambition. Nor have I re- 
gretted that decision. Yet the human nature is not dead 
in me, and my instincts still crave the kind of recogni- 
tion you have given me. I have had heaps of letters 
from all parts of this country, England, Scotland, Ire- 
land, Germany and Switzerland, about my books, but 
in most cases there was no discrimination. People liked 
their religious character, and of course I w r anted them 
to do so. But you understand and appreciate everything 
in Greylock, and have, therefore, gratified my husband 
and myself. Nobody has ever alluded to Margaret save 
yourself. * * * I am not sorry that I chose the path 

in life I did choose. A woman should not live for, or 
even desire, fame. This is yet more true of a Christian 
woman. If I had not steadily suppressed all such am- 
bition I might have become a sour, disappointed woman, 


A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


xv 


seeing my best work unrecognized. But it has been my 
wish to 

“ Dare to be little and unknown, 

Seen and loved by God alone.” 

I have asked Him a thousand times to make me 
smaller and smaller, and crowd the self out of me by 
taking up all the room Himself. 

In a memorial address, delivered by Dr. Vin- 
cent, her old pastor, soon after Mrs. Prentiss’ 
death, will be found a very lucid and discrimi- 
nating estimate of her writings from the literary, 
as well as the religious, point of view. So far as 
I know this estimate was the only attempt ever 
made to point out and analyze the sources of her 
power as an author. But the task was per- 
formed with so much judgment, skill and 
delicacy of touch, as well as loving sympathy, 
that it left little to be added by any other pen. 
The memorial address, referred to, may be found 
in The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss, 

pp- 559-568- 


Ube £tor\> of tbe Book. 


II. 

Stepping Heavenward appeared thirty 
years ago. Mrs. Prentiss had become known 
already by her “kittle Susy’s Six Birthdays’ ’ and 
other books for children, as also by “The Flower 
of the Family,’’ and a succession of volumes for 
youth of both sexes ; but in Stepping Heaven- 
ward she struck a higher and stronger note. In 
this work she aimed to help and to cheer all her 
readers, whether old or young, in the hard 
struggle of life. She composed the larger part 
of it in the winter and spring of 1867-8, while 
absorbed in caring for a little motherless nephew 
who died shortly after. Referring especially to 
this part, she once said to a friend, “ Every word 
of that book was a prayer, and seemed to come 
of itself. I never knew how it was written, for 
my heart and hands were full of something else.” 
On going to Dorset for the summer she carried 
the manuscript with her, but in 110 mood to 
finish it. In a letter dated August 3, she said: 

(xvi) 


THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 


XVII 


“ I feel now as if I should never write any more. 
Book-making looks formidable.” I begged 
her to take the story up again, and two gifted 
Christian ladies, then sojourning in Dorset, 
joined their persuasion to mine. Several years 
later one of them, Miss K. A. Warner, wrote to 
me : 

Do you remember coming into the parlor one morning 
where Miss Hannah Lyman and I were sitting by our- 
selves, and telling us that your wife was writing a story, 
but had become so discouraged she threatened to throw 
it aside as not worth finishing? “ I like it myself,” you 
added, “ it really seems to me one of the best things she 
has ever written, and I am trying to get her to read it to 
you and see what you think of it.” Of course both of 
us were eager to hear it, and promised to tell her frankly 
how we liked it. The next morning she came to our 
room with a little green box in her hand, saying, with 
her merry laugh, “Now you’ve got to do penance for 
your sins, you wicked women !” and, sitting down by 
the window, while we took our sewing, she began to 
read to us in manuscript the work which was destined to 
touch and strengthen so many hearts — “ which,” to use 
the words of another, “has become a part of the soul- 
history of many thousands of Christian women, young 
and old, at home and abroad.” It was a rare treat to 
listen to it, with comments from her interspersed, some 
of them droll and witty, others full of profound re- 
ligious feeling. Now and then, as we queried if some- 
thing was not improbable or unnatural, she would give 
us bits of history from her own experience or that of her 
friends, going to show that stranger things had occurred 
in real life. I need not say we insisted on its being fin- 
ished, feeling sure it would do great good ; though I 


XV1U 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


must confess that I do not think either of us, much as 
we enjoyed it, was fully aware of its great merits. 

She went on with her work, occasionally reading to us 
what she had added. In those days she always spoke of 
it as her “ Katy book,” no other title having been given 
to it. But one morning she came to the breakfast table 
with her face all lighted up. “I’ve got a name for my 
book,” she exclaimed, “ it came to me while I was lying 
awake last night. You know Wordsworth’s Stepping 
Westward? I am going to call it Stepping Heavenward; 
don’t you like it ? I do.” We all felt it was exactly the 
right name, and she added, “I think I will put in 
Wordsworth’s poem as a preface.” 

The work was first printed as a serial in The 
Advance of Chicago. As it drew to a close Mr. 
J. B. T. Marsh, one of the editors, wrote to her : 

You will notice that the story is completed this week. 
I wish it could have continued six months longer. I 
have several times been on the point of writing you to 
express my own personal satisfaction and to acquaint 
you with the great unanimity and volume of praise of it, 
wdiich has reached us from our readers. I do not think 
anything since the National Era and Uncle Tom’s Cabin 
times has been more heartily received. We have had 
hundreds of letters of which the expression has been: 
“ We quarrel to see who shall have the first reading of 
the story.” I think if you should ever come West my 
wife would overturn almost any stone for the sake of 
welcoming you to the hospitality of our cottage on the 
Lake Michigan shore. 

When issued in book form its reception sur- 
passed all expectation. Notwithstanding the 


THE STORY OF THE BOOK . 


xix 


favor it met with in The Advance , Mrs. Prentiss 
had still great misgiving about its success — a 
misgiving that constantly haunted her while en- 
gaged in writing it. But all doubt on the sub- 
ject was soon dispelled. 

Stepping Heavenward seemed to meet so many real 
deep, inarticulate cravings in such a multitude of hearts, 
that the response to it was instant and general. Others 
of Mrs. Prentiss’ books were enjoyed, praised, laughed 
over ; but this one was taken by timid hands into secret 
places, pored over by eyes dim with tears, and its lessons 
• prayed out at many a Jabbok. It was one of those books 
which sorrowing women read to each other, and which 
lured many a bustling Martha from the fretting of her 
care-cumbered life to ponder the new lesson of rest in 
toil. It was one of those books of which people kept a 
lending copy, that they might enjoy the uninterrupted 
companionship of their own.* 

The circulation of Stepping Heavenward 
was very large. In this country not less, prob- 
ably, than a hundred and fifty thousand copies 
have been sold ; while abroad, where it was not 
copyrighted, the sale is estimated to have reached 
a much larger number of copies — perhaps half a 
million. Four leading houses in Great Britain 
republished the work. It was translated into 
German, French, Norwegian, Swedish, Italian, 
and I know not what other languages. The 
German version long ago passed into the sixth 

*Dr. Vincent’s Memorial Discourse. 


XX 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


edition. Baron Tauchnitz, the celebrated Leip- 
sic publisher, inserted it also in his noted Col- 
lection of British Authors. In a letter asking my 
permission to do so, he praised the work in very 
high terms. Indeed, the testimonials to its 
power and beauty from beyond the sea were 
even more striking than those at home. Men 
and women known the world over as scholars 
and authors or for their high culture, social posi- 
tion and leadership in the service of God and 
humanity, expressed their admiration without 
stint. One of them, said to have been an 
eminent German theologian, used this language 
respecting- it : “Already many a good, noble 
gift, rich in blessing, is come to us from North 
America ; but we do not hesitate to designate 
Stepping Heavenward as the best among all 
from there which we have ever seen.” * 

An interesting chapter might be written about 
the different translations of Stepping Heaven- 
ward. I will refer to one of them, the German 
version. It was made by an invalid lady of 
Gottingen, and led to a correspondence, which 
has not yet ceased. Her letters, overflowing 
with grateful affection and giving details respect- 
ing the successive editions of the work, the wel- 
come it received into thousands of German homes 

* “ Schon matiche gute, edle, segensreiche Gabe ist uns aus 
Nord-America gekommeu, aber wir stehen nicht an Himmelan 
als.die beste zu bezeichnen unter alien, die uns von dort zu 
Gesichte gekommen.” 


THE STOR Y OF THE BOOK . 


xxi 


and its great usefulness, have been running on 
now for nearly thirty years.* 

The Secret of its Infeuence. 

Stepping Heavenward, while deeply religious, 
is wholly free from either sectarian bias or theo- 
logical formulas. Every page bears the stamp 
of earnest conviction. The tone throughout is 
honest, sympathetic and full of good cheer. No 
false or jarring notes are struck. All is natural 
and true to life. The “one human heart ” beat- 
ing in the bosom of the race and, more or less 
feebly, in its humblest members, is depicted 
with a skill, fidelity, gentleness and soothing 
touch, which could come only of deep personal 
experience and the keenest observation. If the 
lessons taught by the story are at times painful, 
they are yet sweet, inspiring and fresh as a 
spring breeze. No discouraging, still less gloomy 
or pessimistic sentence can be found in the entire 
volume. Stepping Heavenward is its dominant, 
animating, ever-recurring thought as well as its 
aim and name. And this is largely the secret of 
its influence. This, too, explains the fact, at- 
tested by innumerable witnesses, that the book 

* Here is the dedication of the sixth edition , published in 1894 : 
DER GELIEB TEN E NEE LIN 
der verewigten Verfasserin von “stepping heavenward” 

' ELIZABETH PRENT1SS-HENRY 
widmet. 

diese sechste Aujlage von “ Himmelan" 
die Uebersetzerin. 


XXII 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


is almost equally adapted and dear to all classes 
and conditions of readers who aspire to a life in 
harmony with the holy will of God. I say 
“almost equally adapted and dear”; for I 
cannot forget that it was written expressly to 
give aid and comfort to women, both young and 
old — more especially to suffering wives and 
mothers — hard-pressed by the terrible cares and 
battle of life. If I may judge by the letters in 
which they poured out to the author their feel- 
ings of grateful love and admiration Stepping 
Heavenward was better adapted and dearer to 
them than it could possibly be to men. Mrs. 
Prentiss used to say, laughingly, that she did not 
understand men and could not write for them. 

The letters referred to came from all parts of 
this country, from Europe and even from the 
ends of the earth ; and they were written by 
persons belonging to every class in society. 
Among them was one which Mrs. Prentiss 
specially prized. It w T as written on coarse, 
brown grocery paper by a poor crippled boy 
in the interior of Pennsylvania and led to a 
correspondence that continued for years. The 
book w r as read with equal delight by persons 
not only of all classes from a queen to a poor 
negro woman, but of all nationalities and creeds ; 
by Protestants and Roman Catholics, by Cal- 
vinists, Arminians, High Churchmen, Evan- 
gelicals, Quakers and Unitarians. It had that 


THE STORY OF THE hoOK. 


XXlll 


touch of nature which makes the whole world 
akin. Thousands of its readers appeared to think 
their own case was described, so plainly did they 
see themselves mirrored in its pages. The num- 
ber of Katys, Katy’s mothers, Marthas, Mrs. 
Campbells, Dr. Cabots, Dr. Elliotts, both son 
and father, who were positively identified as 
originals of these characters, was a marvel. The 
questions put to her on this point in letters and 
conversation greatly amused Mrs. Prentiss, es- 
pecially the questions relating to Katy. She 
ridiculed the suggestion that she herself had sat 
as the model for Katy. ‘ ‘ Everybody is asking 
(she wrote to her daughter, then in Germany) 
if I meant in Katy to describe myself. * * 

The next book I write I’ll make my heroine 
black and everybody will say, ‘Oh, there you 
are again, black to the life ! ” 

Nevertheless, she and Katy were astonishingly 
alike. Who that knew her well could fail to 
see it at every turn. In depicting Katy she 
was, unconsciously no doubt, drawing a most 
life-like picture of herself. As for example in 
such passages as this: “Why need I throw my 
whole soul into whatever I do? Why can’t I 
make so much as an apron for little Ernest 
without the ardor and eagerness of a soldier 
marching to battle? I wonder if people of my 
temperament ever get toned down and learn to 
take life coolly ? ” At all events, if there had 


XXIV 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


been no Elizabeth Prentiss I feel quite sure the 
Katy of Stepping Heavenward would have been 
impossible. 

In planning and writing Stepping Heaven- 
ward, she seemed to have no thought whatever 
of pecuniary profit or of reputation. “Even 
Satan never ventured to suggest that I write for 
money,” she once said. Nor had literary am- 
bition, so far as I could perceive, anything to 
do with her books. Once written and published 
she rarely alluded to them, or cared to hear 
them mentioned. “Mr. R. (she wrote to her 
daughter in Germany) has sent me a letter from 
a man in Nice, whose wife wants to translate 
Katy into French. I sent word they might 
translate it into Hottentot for all me.” But 
if the message was to the effect that some poor, 
bed-ridden old woman, or a sorrow-stricken 
young mother, had found comfort in one of her 
books, it would send a thrill of joy through her 
whole frame. “Much of my experience of life 
(she wrote to a friend, not long before her 
death) has cost me a great price and I wish to 
use it for strengthening and comforting other 
souls.” 

If the whole secret of the charm of Stepping 
Heavenward were told, it would be needful to 
point out the literary, as well as the practical 
and religious sources of its power. All through 
the volume, from the poem of Wordsworth at 


THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 


xxv 


its beginning to the hymn of Faber at its close, 
one sees constant indications of familiarity with 
the best literature. Mrs. Prentiss was not only 
a great reader, but, like her father, she possessed 
a wonderful faculty for absorbing and assimi- 
lating what she read, whether in English, French 
or German. Her taste was very catholic; and 
she could pass from Bunyan, Baxter, Leighton, 
Fenelon, Tauler and Tholuck, George Herbert, 
Keble and Manning, to Sir Walter Scott, Goethe, 
Victor Hugo, Dickens, Irving, Longfellow, 
Hawthorne and Mrs. Stowe, without the slight- 
est jar or sense of incongruity. Everything 
genuine and truthful ; everything that taught 
her a new lesson in the study of human nature, 
interested her deeply and passed readily into her 
own style and thought. 

The letters Mrs. Prentiss received thanking 
her for Stepping Heavenward, along with those 
that have reached me since her death, form a 
very beautiful tribute to her memory. One, 
addressed to her, arrived from London a few 
days before her last illness. It was written by 
a young wife and mother closely related to two 
of the most honored families in England, and 
sought counsel in regard to certain questions of 
duty that had grown out of special domestic 
trials. Stepping Heavenward, the writer said, 
had formed an era in her religious life ; she had 
read it through frcn?i fifty to sixty times ; it had 


XXVI 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


its place by the side of her Bible ; and no words 
could express the good it had done her, or the 
comfort she had derived from its pages. 

Here is an extract from a letter to me written 
by a distinguished Methodist divine of the 
Northwest : 

In a letter from my daughter, who is the wife of a mis- 
sionary in China, she speaks of spending a part of a 
Sunday afternoon in reading Stepping Heavenward , 
and adds, “This must be at least the twelfth time I 
have read it through.” She is a cultivated and devout 
Christian, fully occupied in studying, teaching, trans- 
lating and a hundred other things ; and yet finds time to 
read and re-read again and again her favorite book. 

Here is an extract from a recent letter of Mrs. 
John R. Mott, describing a visit to a girls’ 
school in Shanghai : 

The school is the only attempt I know of to reach the 
daughters of the highest classes. The principal is Miss 
Laura Havgood, a sister of Bishop Haygood of the 
Southern Methodist Church. The school is Anglo- 
Chinese, English being a great attraction in a port. 
The principal is a very strong, womanly and Christian 
character and the conduct of the school is thoroughly 
Christian. There were, I think, about thirty girls in the 
school when I was there, but it has been growing rapidly 
since. They were naturally the most attractive girls I 
saw in China. Some of them were beautiful in person, 
dress, manners, and, best of all, Christian character. 
It was such a satisfaction to be able to talk to them in 
English. A smile went round when I asked the ques- 
tion as to their favorite book, aside from the Bible, and 
the answer Stepping Heavenward left no doubt on 


THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 


xxvil 


the subject. The teachers also told me that Stepping 
Heavenward had a remarkable influence among them 
and that they talked and wrote of it as of no other book. 

Testimonies like these have been so numerous 
that if printed they would form a large volume. 
Here is an extract from a letter from Old Eng- 
land that comes even while I am writing : 

My mother, who has been staying with me, says that 
among the last books she read aloud to my father was 
Stepping Heavenward, and that they both enjoyed it ex- 
ceedingly. Your mother wrote it, did she not?” 

The father who had just passed away was 
that admirable Christian man and eminent theo- 
logian, Professor A. B. Bruce of Scotland. 

The interest of the Chinese girls in Stepping 
Heavenward surprised me at first not a little, 
notwithstanding that “More Love to Thee, O 
Christ,” as I had been told, was a special favor- 
ite in the native churches. The hymn is so 
simple and so spiritual that it is equally adapted 
to the expression of religious feeling and aspira- 
tion everywhere and among all races ; but the 
story is occidental, modern and even American 
in style of thought, in manners, and in local 
coloring. The reason why these bright Chinese 
girls were so delighted with it can be found only 
in the Christ-like spirit and the deep knowledge 
of human nature which mark the book. The 
inspiration of gospel faith and hope and love is 
no more a thing of place and race than is sun- 


xxviii STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 

shine, or the air we breathe. That is why the 
New Testament and the story of the Cross may 
become as precious, and to all intents and pur- 
poses as intelligible also, to a poor Hottentot as 
to the greatest scholar, scientist, philosopher or 
theologian in Christendom. The foolishness of 
God is wiser than men. If we understood better 
what penitence, pra}^er and saving grace really 
mean, according to the Scriptures, we should, 
perhaps, cease being puzzled to find such spiritual 
unity amid the most grotesque and repulsive 
diversities of human condition. 

It has been to me a solace and joy, ever since 
the departure of its author, to give away copies of 
Stepping Heavenward far and near, and then to 
note the happy influence of the book. Of course 
every book, even the Bible itself, is powerless to 
bring light and strength into unwilling souls ; 
but where there is any real interest in religious 
things, any sincere desire for spiritual counsel 
and help, Stepping Heaveirward, I have found, 
always brings with it a benediction, especially 
where relief is most sorely needed. What Dr. 
Vincent said in his memorial address more than 
a score of years ago, may be said with equal 
truth to-day : 

I am sure that hers is, in an eminent degree, the bless- 
ing of them that were ready to perish. Weary, overtaxed 
mothers, misunderstood and unappreciated wives, ser- 
vants, pale seamstresses, delicate women forced to live 


THE STORY OF THE BOOK . 


XXIX 


in an atmosphere of drunkenness and coarse brutality, 
widows and orphans in the bitterness of their bereave- 
ment, mothers with their tears dropping over empty 
cradles — to thousands of such she was a messenger from 
heaven. 

And not only, I may add, to thousands of 
such was she a messenger from heaven, but to 
thousands also whose path in life was full of 
sunshine and flowers, did she bring the same 
message, teaching them that in. prosperity as 
well as in adversity our supreme felicity is in 
loving God and doing His blessed will as He has 
made it known to us in Jesus Christ. This les- 
son of lessons runs, like a golden thread, through 
Stepping Heavenward, and all the rest of Mrs. 
Prentiss’ writings. It is, indeed, only another 
version, varied in form and by story, of the sub- 
lime answer given to the first question in the old 
Catechism : What is the Chief End of Man ? 

Man' s Chief End is to Glorify God and to 
Enjoy Him Forever. G. L. P. 

New York , Christinas Day , iSgg. 

























I 


/ 


























Stepping Westwart*. 


While my fellow traveller and I were walking by the 
side of Loch Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, in 
our road to a hut where, in the course of our tour, we 
had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we 
met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, 
two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us by way 
of greeting, “ What, you are stepping westward ? ” 

“ What, are you stepping westward f ” "Yea.” 

— ’Twould be a wildish destiny, 

If we, who thus together roam 

In a strange land, and far from home, 

Were in this place the guests of chance : 

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 

Though home or shelter he had none, 

With such a sky to lead him on ? 

The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 

Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 

And stepping westward seemed to be 
A kind of heavenly destiny : 

I liked the greeting ; ’twas a sound 
Of something without place and bound : 

And seemed to give me spiritual right 
To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 
Was walking by her native lake : 

The salutation had to me v 

The very sound of courtesy ; 

Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 

The echo of the voice enwrought 
A human sweetness with the thought 
Of travelling through the world that lay 
Before me in my endless way.— WORDSWORTH. 


Faint not ; the miles to heaven are but fezu and 
short. — R UTHERFORD . 

Hozu shall I do to love? Believe. How shall I 
do to believe? Love . — Leighton. 

Always add, always walk , always proceed ; neither 
stand still , nor go back, nor deviate; he that standeth 
still proceedetli not; he goeth back that continueth not ; 
he deviateth that revolteth ; he goeth better that creep- 
eth in his way than he that moveth out of his way. 
Augustine. 


Stepping Ifoeavemvarb. 


CHAPTER I. 

January 15, 1831. 

How dreadfully old I am getting ! Sixteen ! 
Well, I don’t see as I can help it. There it is 
in the big Bible in father’s own hand : 

“ Katherine, born Jan. 15, 1815.” 

I meant to get up early this morning, but it 
looked dismally cold out of doors, and felt de- 
lightfully warm in bed. So I covered myself 
up, and made ever so many good resolutions. 

I determined, in the first place, to begin this 
Journal. To be sure, I have begun half a dozen, 
and got tired of them after a while. Not tired 
of writing them, but disgusted with what I had 
to say of m} 7 self. But this time I mean to go 
on, in spite of everything. It will do me good 
to read it over, and see what a creature I am. 

Then I resolved to do more to please mother 
than I have done. 

And I determined to make one more effort to 
conquer my hasty temper. I thought, too, I 
would be self-denying this winter, like the peo- 


2 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


pie one reads about in books. I fancied how 
surprised and pleased everybody would be to 
see me so much improved ! 

Time passed quickly amid these agreeable 
thoughts, and I was quite startled to hear the 
bell ring for prayers. I jumped up in a great 
flurry, and dressed as quickly as I could. 
Everything conspired together to plague me. 
I could not find a clean collar, or a handkerchief. 
It is always just so. Susan is forever poking 
my things into out-of-the-way places ! When 
at last I went down, they were all at breakfast. 

“ I hoped you would celebrate your birthday, 
dear, by coming down in good season,” said 
mother. 

I do hate to be found fault with, so I fired up 
in an instant. 

“ If people hide my things so that I can’t find 
them, of course I have to be late,” I said. And 
I rather think I said it in a very cross way, for 
mother sighed a little. I wish mother wouldn’t 
sigh. I would rather be called names out and 
out. 

The moment breakfast was over I had to 
hurry off to school. Just as I was going out 
mother said, “ Have you your overshoes, dear? ” 

‘‘Oh, mother, don’t hinder me! I shall be 
late,” I said. “ I don’t need overshoes.” 

“ It snowed all night, and I think you do need 
them,” mother said. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


3 


“ I don’t know where they are. I hate over- 
shoes. Do let me go, mother,” I cried. “ I do 
wish I could ever have my own way.” 

“You shall have it now, my child,” mother 
said, and went away. 

Now what was the use of her calling me “ my 
child ” in such a tone, I should like to know. 

I hurried off, and just as I got to the door of 
the school room it flashed into my mind that I 
had not said my prayers ! A nice way to begin 
on one’s birthday, to be sure ! Well, I had not 
time. And perhaps my good resolutions pleased 
God almost as much as one of my rambling stupid 
prayers could. For I must own I can’t make 
good prayers. I can’t think of anything to say. 
I often wonder what mother finds to say when 
she is shut up by the hour together. 

I had a pretty good time at school. My teachers 
praised me, and Amelia seemed so fond of me ! 
She brought me a birthday present of a purse 
that she had knit for me herself, and a net for 
my hair. Nets are just coming into fashion. It 
will save a good deal of my time having this one. 
Instead of combing and combing and combing 
my old hair to get it glossy enough to suit mother, 
I can just give it one twist and one squeeze, and 
the whole thing will be settled for the day. 

Amelia wrote me a dear little note, with her 
presents. I do really believe she loves me dearly. 
It is so nice to have people love you ! 


4 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 


When I got home mother called me into her 
room. She looked as if she had been crying. 
She said I gave her a great deal of pain by my 
self-will and ill temper and conceit. 

“Conceit!” I screamed out. “Oh mother, if 
you only knew how horrid I think I am ! ’ ’ 

Mother smiled a little. Then she went on with 
her list till she made me out the worst creature 
in the world. I burst out crying, and was run- 
ning off to my room, but she made me come back 
and hear the rest. She said my character would 
be essentially formed by the time I reached my 
twentieth year, and left it to me to say if I wished 
to be as a woman what I was now as a girl? 
I felt sulky, and would not answer. I was 
shocked to think I had got only four years in 
which to improve, but after all a good deal could 
be done in that time. Of course I don’t want to 
be always exactly what I am now. 

Mother went on to say that I had in me the 
elements of a fine character if I would only con- 
quer some of my faults. “You are frank and 
truthful,” she said, “and in some things con- 
scientious. I hope you are really a child of God, 
and are trying to please Him. And it is my 
daily prayer that you may become a lovely, 
loving, useful woman.” 

I made no answer. I wanted to say something, 
but my tongue wouldn’t move. I was angry 
with mother, and angry with myself. At last 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


5 


everything came out all in a rush, mixed up 
with such floods of tears that I thought mother’s 
heart would melt, and that she would take back 
what she had said. 

“Amelia’s mother never talks so to her!” I 
said. “She praises her, and tells her what a 
comfort she is to her. But just as I am trying 
as hard as I can to be good, and making resolu- 
tions, and all that, you scold me and discourage 
me ! ’ ’ 

Mother’s voice was very soft and gentle as she 
asked, “Do you call this ‘scolding,’ my child?” 

“And I don’t like to be called conceited,” I 
w r ent on. “ I know I am perfectly horrid, and I 
am just as unhappy as I can be.” 

“I am very sorry for you, dear,” mother 
replied. “But you must bear with me. Other 
people will see your faults, but only your mother 
will have the courage to speak of them. Now 
go to your own room, and wipe away the traces 
of your tears that the rest of the family may not 
know that you have been crying on your birth- 
day.” She kissed me, but I did not kiss her. 
I really believe Satan himself hindered me. I 
ran across the hall to my room, slammed the 
door and locked myself in. I was going to throw 
myself on the bed and cry till I was sick. Then 
I should look pale and tired, and they would all 
pity me. I do like so to be pitied! But on the 
table, by the window, I saw a beautiful new desk 


6 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


in place of the old clumsy thing I had been 
spattering and spoiling so many 3 T ears. A little 
note, full of love, said it was from mother, and 
begged me to read and reflect upon a few verses 
of a tastefully bound Bible which accompanied 
it, every day of my life. “ A few verses,” she 
said, “carefully read and pondered, instead of a 
chapter or two read for mere form’s sake.” I 
looked at my desk, which contained exactly 
what I wanted, plenty of paper, seals, wax and 
pens. I always use wax. Wafers are vulgar. 
Then I opened the Bible at random and lighted 
on these words: 

“Watch, therefore, for ye know not what 
hour your Lord doth come. ’ ’ There was nothing 
very cheering in that. I felt a real repugnance 
to be always on the watch, thinking I might die 
at any moment. I am sure I am not fit to die. 
Besides I want to have a good time with nothing 
to w 7 orry me. I hope I shall live ever so long. 
Perhaps in the course of forty or fifty years I 
may get tired of this world and want to leave 
it. And I hope by that time, I shall be a great 
deal better than I am now and fit to go to 
heaven. 

I wrote a note to mother on my new desk, and 
thanked her for it. I told her she was the best 
mother in the world, and that I was the worst 
daughter. When it was done I did not like it, 
and so I wrote another. Then I went down to 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


7 


dinner and felt better. We had such a nice 
dinner ! Everything I liked best was on the 
table. Mother had not forgotten one of all the 
dainties I like. Amelia was there too. Mother 
had invited her to give me a little surprise. It 
is bed time now, and I must say my prayers, 
and go to bed. I have got all chilled through, 
writing here in the cold. I believe I will say 
my prayers in bed, just for this once. I do not 
feel sleepy, but I am sure I ought not to sit up 
another moment. 

Jan. 30. — Here I am at my desk once 

more. There is a fire in my room, and mother 
is sitting by it, reading. I can’t see what book 
it is, but I have no doubt it is Thomas a Kempis. 
How she can go on reading it so year after year, 
I cannot imagine. For my part I like something 
new. But I must go back to where I left off. 

That night when I stopped writing, I hurried 
to bed as fast as I could, for I felt cold and tired. 
I remember saying, “ Oh, God, I am ashamed to 
pray , ’ ’ and then I began to think of all the things 
that had happened during that day, and never 
knew another thing till the rising bell rang and 
I found it was morning. I am sure I did not 
mean to go to sleep. I think now it was wrong 
for me to be such a coward as to try to say my 
prayers in bed because of the cold. While I was 
writing I did not once think how I felt. Well, 


8 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


I jumped up as soon as I heard the bell, but 
found I had a dreadful pain in my side, and 
a cough. Susan says I coughed all night. I 
remembered then that I had just such a cough 
and just such a pain the last time I walked in 
the snow without overshoes. I crept back to 
bed feeling about as mean as I could. Mother 
sent up to know why I did not come down, and I 
had to own up that I was sick. She came up 
directly looking so anxious! And here I have 
been shut up ever since; only to-day I am sitting 
up a little. Poor mother has had trouble enough 
with me; I know I have been cross and unreason- 
able, and it was all my own fault that I was ill. 
Another time I will do as mother says. 

Jan. 31. — How easy it is to make good 

resolutions, and how easy it is to break them! 
Just as I had got so far, yesterday, mother spoke 
for the third time about my exerting myself so 
much. And just at that moment I fainted away, 
and she had a great time all alone there with me. 
I did not realize how 7 long I had been w r riting, 
nor how weak I w r as. I do winder if I shall ever 
really learn that mother know 7 s more than I do! 

Feb. 17. — It is more than a month since 

I took that cold, and here I still am, shut up in 
the house. To be sure the doctor lets me go 
down stairs, but then he w 7 on’t listen to a word 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


9 


about school. Oh; dear! All the girls will get 
ahead of me. 

This is Sunday, and everybody has gone to 
church. I thought I ought to make a good use 
of the time while they were gone, so I took the 
Memoir of Henry Martyn, and read a little in 
that. 

I am afraid I am not much like him. Then I 
knelt down and tried to pray. But my mind 
was full of all sorts of things, so I thought I 
would wait till I was in a better frame. At 
noon I disputed with James about the name of 
an apple. He was very provoking, and said he 
was thankful he had not got such a temper as 
I had. I cried and mother reproved him for 
teasing me, saying my illness had left me 
nervous and irritable. James replied that it 
had left me where it found me, then. I cried 
a good while, lying on the sofa, and then I 
fell asleep. I don’t see as I am any better for 
this Sunday, it has only made me feel unhappy 
and out of sorts. I am sure I pray to God to 
make me better, and why don’t He? 

Fkb. 20. — It has been quite a mild day 

for the season and the doctor said I might drive 
. out. I enjoyed getting the air very much. I 
feel just as well as ever, and long to get back 
to school. I think God has been very good 


IO 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


to me in making me well again, and I wish I 
loved Him better. But, oh I am not sure I 
do love Him ! I hate to own it to myself, and 
to write it down here, but I will. I do not 
love to pray. I am always eager to get it over 
with and out of the way so as to have leisure 
to enjoy myself. I mean that this is usually 
so. This morning I cried a good deal while I 
was on my knees, and felt sorry for my quick 
temper and all my bad ways. If I always felt 
so, perhaps praying would not be such a task. 
I wish I knew whether anybody exactly as bad 
as I am ever got to heaven at last? I have 
read ever so many memoirs, and they were all 
about people who were too good to live, and 
so died ; or else went on a mission ; I am not 
at all like any of them. 

March 26. — I have been so busy that 

I have not said much to you, you poor old 
journal you, have I? Somehow I have been 
behaving quite nicely, lately. Everything has 
gone on exactly to my mind. Mother has not 
found fault with me once, and father has praised 
my drawings and seemed proud of me. He says 
he shall not tell me all my teachers say of me 
lest it should make me vain. And once or 
twice when he has met me singing and frisking 
about the house, he has kissed me and called 
me his dear little Flibbertigibbet, if that is the 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. II 

way to spell it. When he says that I know 
he is very fond of me. We are all very happy 
together when nothing goes wrong. In the 
long evenings we sit around the table with our 
books and our work, and one of us reads aloud. 
Mother chooses the book and takes her turn in 
reading. She reads beautifully. Of course the 
readings do not begin until the lessons are all 
learned. As to me, my lessons just take no 
time at all. I have only to read them over 
once, and there they are. So I have a good 
deal of time to read, and I devour all the poetry I 
can get hold of. I would rather read “ Pollok’s 
Course of Time,” than read nothing at all. 

April 2. — There are three of mother’s 

friends living near us, each having lots of little 
children. It is perfectly ridiculous how much 
those creatures are sick. They send for mother 
if so much as a pimple comes out on one of 
their faces. When I have children I don’t mean 
to have such goings on. I shall be careful about 
what they eat, and keep them from getting cold, 
and they will keep well of their own accord. 
Mrs. Jones has just sent for mother to see her 
Tommy. It was so provoking. I had coaxed 
her into letting me have a black silk apron ; 
they are all the fashion now, embroidered in 
floss silk. I had drawn a lovely vine for mine 
entirely out of my own head, and mother was 


12 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


going to arrange the pattern for me when that mes- 
sage came, and she had to go. I don’t believe 
anything ails the child ! a great chubby thing ! 

April 3. — Poor Mrs. Jones! Her dear 

little Tommy is dead ! I stayed home from 
school to-day and had all the other children 
here to get them out of their mother’s way. 
How dreadfully she must feel ! Mother cried 
when she told me how the dear little fellow 
suffered in his last moments. It reminded her 
of my little brothers who died in the same 
way, just before I was born. Dear mother! 
I wonder I ever forget what troubles she has 
had, and am not always sweet and loving. She 
has gone now, where she always goes when 
she feels sad, straight to God. Of course she 
did not sa3" so but I know mother. 

April 25. — I have not been down in sea- 
son once this week. I have persuaded mother 
to let me read some of Scott’s novels, and have 
sat up late and been sleep}" in the morning. I 
wish I could get along with mother as nicely 
as James does. He is late far oftener than I 
am, but he never gets into such scrapes about 
it as I do. This is what happens. He comes 
dowm when it suits him. 

Mother begins. — “James, I am very much dis- 
pleased with you.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


13 


James . — “I should think you would be, 
mother.” 

Mother , mollified. — “I don’t think you de- 
serve any breakfast.” 

James , hypocritically. — “No, I don’t think I 
do, mother.” 

Then mother hurries off and gets something 
extra for his breakfast. Now let us see how 
things go on when I am late. 

Mother. — “Katherine” (she always calls me 
Katherine when she is displeased, and spells it 
with a K), “ Katherine, you are late again, how 
can you annoy your father so ? ” 

Katherine . — “Of course I don’t do it to annoy 
father or anybody else. But if I oversleep my- 
self, it is not my fault.” 

Mother . — “ I would go to bed at eight o’clock 
rather than be late as often as you are. How 
should you like it if I were not down to pray- 
ers? ” 

Katherine , muttering. — “Of course that is 
very different. I don’t see why I should be 
blamed for oversleeping any more than James. 
I get all the scoldings.” 

Mother sighs and goes off. 

I prowl round and get what scraps of break- 
fast I can. 

May 12. — The weather is getting per- 
fectly delicious. I am sitting with my window 


14 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


open and my bird is singing with all his heart. 
I wish I was as gay as he is. 

I have been thinking lately that it w r as about 
time to begin on some of those pieces of self- 
denial I resolved on upon my birthday. I could 
not think of anything great enough for a long 
time. At last an idea popped into my head. 
Half the girls at school envy me because Amelia 
is so fond of me, and Jane Underhill, in par- 
ticular, is just crazy to get intimate with her. 
But I have kept Amelia all to myself. To-day 
I said to her, “Amelia, Jane Underhill admires 
you above all things. I have a good mind to 
let 3^011 be as intimate with her as you are with 
me. It will be a great piece of self-denial, but 
I think it is my duty. She is a stranger, and 
nobody seems to like her much.” 

“ You dear thing you !” cried Amelia, kissing 
me. “I liked Jane Underhill the moment I 
saw her. She has such a sweet face and such 
pleasant manners. But 3-ou are so jealous that 
I never dared to show how I liked her. Don’t 
be vexed, dearie : if you are jealous it is your 
own fault ! ’ ’ 

She then rushed off, and I saw her kiss that 
girl exactly as she kisses me ! 

This was in recess. I went to my desk and 
made believe I was studying. Pretty soon 
Amelia came back. 

“She is a sweet girl,” she said, “and only 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


15 


to think! She writes poetry! Just hear this! 
It is a little poem addressed to me. Isn’t it 
nice of her? ” 

I pretended not to hear her. I was as full of 
all sorts of horrid feelings as I could hold. It 
enraged me to think that Amelia, after all her 
professions of love to me, should snatch at the 
first chance of getting a new friend. Then I 
was mortified because I was enraged, and I could 
have torn myself to pieces for being such a fool 
as to let Amelia see how silly I was. 

“I don’t know what to make of you, Katy,” 
she said, putting her arms around me. “Have 
I done anything to vex you ? Come, let us 
make up and be friends, whatever it is. I will 
read you these sweet verses ; I am sure you 
will like them.” 

She read them in her clear, pleasant voice. 

* * How can you have the vanity to read such 
stuff?” I cried. 

Amelia colored a little. 

“You have said and written much more flat- 
tering things to me,” she replied. “Perhaps 
it has turned my head, and made me too ready 
to believe what other people say.” She folded 
the paper, and put it into her pocket. We 
walked home together, after school, as usual, 
but neither of us spoke a word. And now here 
I sit, unhappy enough. All my resolutions fail. 
But I did not think Amelia would take me at 


i6 


5 TE PPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 


my word, and rush after that stuck-up, smirk- 
ing piece ! 

May 20. — I seem to have got back into 

all my bad ways again. Mother is quite out of 
patience with me. I have not prayed for a long 
time. It does not do any good. 

May 21. — It seems this Underhill thing 

is here for her health, though she looks as well 
as any of us. She is an orphan, and has been 
adopted by a rich old uncle, who makes a per- 
fect fool of her. Such dresses and such finery 
as she wears ! Last night she had Amelia there 
to tea, without inviting me, though she knows I 
am her best friend. She gave her a bracelet 
made of her own hair. I wonder Amelia’s 
mother lets her accept presents from strangers. 
My mother would not let me. On the whole, 
there is nobody like one’s own mother. Amelia 
has been cold and distant to me of late, but no 
matter what I do or say to my darling, precious 
mother, she is always kind and loving. She 
noticed how I moped about to-day, and begged 
me to tell her what was the matter. I was 
ashamed to do that. I told her that it was a 
little quarrel I had had with Amelia. 

“Dear child,’’ she said, “how I pity }-ou 
that you have inherited my quick, irritable 
temper. ’ ’ 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


17 


‘ ‘ Yo?irs, mother ! ” I cried out ; ‘ ‘ what can 
you mean ? ’ ’ 

Mother smiled a little at my surprise. 

“It is even so,” she said. 

“Then how did you cure yourself of it? Tell 
me quick mother, and let me cure myself of 
mine.” 

“My dear Katy,” she said, “I wish I could 
make you see that God is just as willing, and 
just as able to sanctify, as He is to redeem us. 
It would save you so much weary, disappointing 
work. But God has opened my eyes at last.” 

“I wish He would open mine, then,” I said, 
“for all I see now is that I am just as horrid 
as I can be, and the more I pray the worse I 
grow.” 

“That is not true, dear,” she replied; “go 
on praying — pray without ceasing. ’ ’ 

I sat pulling my handkerchief this way and 
that, and at last rolled it up into a ball and 
threw it across the room. I wished I could toss 
my bad feelings into a corner with it. 

“I do wish I could make you love to pray, 
my darling child,” mother went on. “If you 
only knew the strength, and the light, and the 
joy you might have for the simple asking. God 
attaches no conditions to His gifts. He only 
says, ‘Ask!’" 

This may be true, but it is hard work to pray. 
It tires me. And I do wish there was some 


i8 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


easy way of growing good. In fact, I should 
like to have God send a sweet temper to me just 
as He sent bread and meat to Elijah. I don’t 
believe Elijah had to kneel down and pray for 
them. 


CHAPTER II. 


June i. 

East Sunday Dr. Cabot preached to the 
young. He first addressed those who knew they 
did not love God. It did not seem to me that I 
belonged to that class. Then he spoke to those 
who knew they did. I felt sure I was not one 
of those. East of all he spoke affectionately to 
those who did not know what to think, and I 
was frightened and ashamed to feel tears run- 
ning down my cheeks, when he said that he 
believed that most of his hearers who were in 
this doubtful state did really love their Master, 
only their love was something as new and as 
tender and perhaps as unobserved as the tiny 
point of green that, forcing its way through the 
earth, is yet unconscious of its own existence, 
but promises a thrifty plant. I don’t suppose I 
express it very well, but I know what he meant. 
He then invited those belonging to each class to 
meet him on three successive Saturday after- 
noons. I shall certainly go. 

July 19. — I went to the meeting, and so 

did Amelia. A great many young people were 

(19) 


20 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


there and a few children. Dr. Cabot went 
about from seat to seat speaking to each one 
separately. When he came to us I expected he 
would say something about the way in which I 
had been brought up, and reproach me for not 
profiting more by the instructions and example 
I had at home. Instead of that he said, in a 
cheerful voice, “Well, my dear, I cannot see 
into 3^our heart and positively tell whether there 
is love to God there or not. But I suppose you 
have come here to-day in order to let me help 
you to find out ? ’ ’ 

I said, “Yes; ’’ that was all I could get out. 

“ Det me see, then,” he went on. “Do you 
love your mother ? ’ ’ 

I said “Yes,” once more. 

“But prove to me that you do. How do you 
know it? ” 

I tried to think. Then I said, “I feel that I 
love her. I love to love her, I like to be with 
her. I like to hear people praise her. And I 
try — sometimes at least — to do things to please 
her. But I don’t try half as hard as I ought, 
and I do and say a great many things to dis- 
please her. ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know.” 

‘ ‘ Has mother told you ? ” I cried out. 

“No, dear, no, indeed. But I know what 
human nature is after having one of my own fifty 
years, and six of my children’s to encounter.” 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


21 


Somehow I felt more courage after he said 
that. 

‘ ‘ In the first place, then, you feel that you 
love your mother ? But you never feel that you 
love your God and Saviour ? ’ ’ 

“ I often try, and try, but I never do,” I said. 

“ Love won’t be forced,” he said, quickly. 

“ Then what shall I do ? ” 

“In the second place, you like to be with 
your mother. But you never like to be with 
the Friend who loves you so much better than 
she does ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know, I never was with Him. 
Sometimes I think that when Mary sat at His 
feet and heard Him talk, she must have been 
very happy.” 

“We come to the third test, then. You like 
to hear people praise your mother. And have 
you never rejoiced to hear the Lord magnified? ” 

I shook my head sorrowfully enough. 

“ Let us then try the last test. You know you 
love your mother because you try to do things 
to please her. That is to do what you know she 
wishes you to do ? Very well. Have you never 
tried to do anything God wishes you to do?” 

“Oh yes; often. But not so often as I 
ought.” 

“Of course not. No one does that. But 
come now, why do you try to do what you think 
will please Him ? Because it is easy ? Because 


22 


5 TEPPING HE A I r EN WARD. 


you like to do wliat He likes rather than what 
you like yourself.” 

I tried to think, and got puzzled. 

“Never mind,” said Dr. Cabot. “I have 
come now to the point I was aiming at. You 
cannot prove to yourself that you love God by 
examining your feelings towards Him. They 
are indefinite and they fluctuate. But just as 
far as you obey Him, just so far, depend upon 
it, you love Him. It is not natural to us sinful, 
ungrateful human beings to prefer His pleasure 
to our own, or to follow His way instead of our 
own way, and nothing, nothing but love to Him 
can or does make us obedient to Him.” 

“ Couldn’t we obey Him from fear ? ” Amelia 
now asked. She had been listening all this 
time in silence. 

“Yes; and so you might obey your mother 
from fear, but only for a season. If you had 
no real love for her you would gradually cease 
to dread her displeasure ; whereas it is the very 
nature of love to grow stronger and more influ- 
ential every hour. ’ ’ 

“You mean, then, that if we want to know 
whether we love God, we must find out whether 
we are obeying Him ? ” Amelia asked. 

“ I mean exactly that. ‘ He that keepeth my 
commandments he it is that lovetli me.’ But 
I cannot talk with you any longer now. There 
are many others still waiting. You can come 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


23 


to see me some day next week, if you have any 
more questions to ask.” 

When we got out into the street, Amelia and 
I got hold of each other’s hands. We did not 
speak a word till we reached the door, but we 
knew that we were as good friends as ever. 

“I understand all Dr. Cabot said,” Amelia 
whispered, as we separated. But I felt like one 
in a fog. I cannot see how it is possible to love 
God and yet feel as stupid as I do when I think 
of Him. Still, I am determined to do one thing, 
and that is to pray regularly instead of now and 
then, as I have got the habit of doing lately. 

July 25. — School has closed for the sea- 
son. I took the first prize for drawing, and my 
composition was read aloud on examination day, 
and everybody praised it. Mother could not 
possibly help showing, in her face, that she was 
very much pleased. I am pleased myself. We 
are now getting ready to take a journey. I do 
not think I shall go to see Dr. Cabot again. 
My head is so full of other things, and there 
is so much to do before we go. I am having 
four new dresses made, and I can’t imagine how 
to have them trimmed. I mean to run down to 
Amelia’s and ask her. 

July 27. — I was rushing through the 

hall just after I wrote that, and met mother. 


24 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“Iam going to Amelia’s,” I said, hurrying 
past her. 

“Stop one minute, dear. Dr. Cabot is down 
stairs. He says he has been expecting a visit 
from you, and that as you did not come to him, 
he has come to you.” 

‘ ‘ I wish he would mind his own business, ’ ’ I 
said. 

“I think he is minding it, dear,” mother 
answered. “His Master’s business is his, and 
that is what brought him here. Go to him, my 
darling child ; I am sure you crave something 
better than prizes and compliments and new 
dresses and journeys.” 

If anybody but mother had said that, my 
heart would have melted at once, and I should 
have gone right down to Dr. Cabot to be 
moulded in his hands to almost any shape. But 
as it was, I brushed past her, ran into my room, 
and locked my door. Oh, what makes me act 
so? I hate myself for it, I don’t want to do it ! 

Last week I dined with Mrs. Jones. Her 
little Tommy was very fond of me, and that, 
I suppose, makes her have me there so often. 
Lucy was at the table, and very fractious. She 
cried first for one thing and then for another. 
At last her mother in a gentle, but very decided 
way put her down from the table. Then she 
cried louder than ever. But when her mother 
offered to take her back if she would be good, 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


25 


she screamed yet more. She wanted to come 
and wouldn't let herself come. I almost hated 
her when I saw her act so, and now I am 
behaving ten times worse and I am just as 
miserable as I can be. 

July 29. — Amelia has been here. She 

has had another talk with Dr. Cabot and is 
perfectly happy. She says it is so easy to be a 
Christian ! It may be easy for her ; everything 
is. She never has any of my dreadful feelings, 
and does not understand them when I try to 
explain them to her. Well ! if I am fated to be 
miserable, I must try to bear it. 

Oct. 3. — Summer is over, school has 

begun again, and I am so busy that I have not 
much time to think, or to be low spirited. We 
had a delightful journey, and I feel well and 
bright, and even gay. I never enjoyed my 
studies as I do those of this year. Everything 
goes on pleasantly here at home. But James 
has gone away to school and we miss him sadly. 
I do wish I had a sister. Though I dare say I 
should quarrel with her, if I had. 

Oct. 23. — I am so glad that my studies 

are harder this year, as I am never happy except 
when every moment is occupied. However, I 
do not study all the time, by any means. Mrs. 


26 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Gordon grows more and more fond of me, and 
has me there to dinner or to tea continually. 
She has a much higher opinion of me than 
mother has, and is always saying the sort of 
things that make you feel nice. She holds me 
up to Amelia as an example, begging her to 
imitate me in my fidelity about my lessons, and 
declaring there is nothing she so much desires 
as to have a daughter bright and original like 
me. Amelia only laughs, and goes and purrs 
in her mother’s ears, when she hears such talk. 
It costs her nothing to be pleasant. She was 
born so. For my part, I think myself lucky to 
have such a friend. She gets along with my 
odd, hateful ways better than any one else does. 
Mother, when I boast of this, says she has no 
penetration into character, and that she would 
be fond of almost any one fond of her ; and that 
the fury with which I love her deserves some 
response. I really don’t know what to make of 
mother. Most people are proud of their chil- 
dren when they .see others admire them ; but 
she does say such pokey things ! Of course I 
know that having a gift for music, and a taste 
for drawing, and a reputation for saying witty, 
bright things isn’t enough. But when she 
doesn’t find fault with me, and nothing happens 
to keep me down, I am the gayest creature on 
earth. I do love to get with a lot of nice girls, 
and carry on ! I have got enough fun in me to 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


27 


keep a houseful merry. And mother needn’t 
say anything, I inherited it from her. 

Evening. — I knew it was coming ! 

Mother has been in to see what I was about, 
and to give me a bit of her mind. She says she 
loves to see me gay and cheerful, as is natural 
at my age, but that levity quite upsets and 
disorders the mind, indisposing it for serious 
thoughts. 

“ But, mother,” I said, “didn’t you carry on 
when you were a young girl ? ’ ’ 

“ Of course I did,” she said, smiling. “But 
I do not think I was quite so thoughtless as you 
are.” 

“Thoughtless” indeed! I wish I were ! But 
am I not always full of uneasy, reproachful 
thoughts when the moment of excitement is 
over ? Other girls, who seem less trifling than 
I, are really more so. Their heads are full of 
dresses and parties and beaux, and all that sort of 
nonsense. I winder if that ever worries their 
mothers, or whether mine is the only one who 
weeps in secret ? Well, I shall be young but once, 
and while I am, do let me have a good time ! 

Sunday, Nov. 20. — Oh, the difference 

between this day and the day I wrote that ! 
There are no good times in this dreadful world. 
I have hardly courage or strength to write down 


28 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


the history of the past few weeks. The day 
after I had deliberately made up my mind to 
enjoy myself, cost what it might, my dear father 
called me to him, kissed me, pulled my ears a 
little, and gave me some money. 

“We have had to keep you rather low in 
funds,” he said, laughing, “But I recovered 
this amount yesterday, and as it was a little debt 
I had given up, I can spare it to you. For 
girls like pin-money, I know, and you may 
spend this just as you please.” 

I was delighted. I want to take more draw- 
ing-lessons, but did not feel sure he could afford 
it. Besides — I am a little ashamed to write it 
down — I knew somebody had been praising me 
or father would not have seemed so fond of me. 
I wondered who it was, and felt a good deal 
puffed up. “After all,” I said to myself, “ some 
people like me if I have got my faults.” I 
threw my arms around his neck and kissed him, 
though that cost me a great effort. I never like 
to show what I feel. But, oh ! how thankful I 
am for it now. 

As to mother, I know father never goes out 
without kissing her good-bye. 

I went out with her to take a walk at three 
o’clock. We had just reached the corner of 
Orange street, when I saw a carriage driving 
slowly towards us ; it appeared to be full of 
sailors. Then I saw our friend, Mr. Freeman, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


29 


among them. When he saw us he jumped out 
and came up to us. I do not know what he said, 
I saw mother turn pale and catch at his arm as 
if she were afraid of falling. But she did not 
speak a word. 

“ Oh! Mr. Freeman, what is it ?” I cried out. 
“ Has anything happened to father? Is he hurt? 
Where is he ? ’ ’ 

“ He is in the carriage,” he said. “We are 
taking him home. He has had a fall.” 

Then we went on in silence. The sailors were 
carrying father in as we reached the house. 
They laid him on the sofa, and we saw his poor 
head — 


Nov. 23. — I will try to write the rest 

now. Father was alive but insensible. He had 
fallen down into the hold of the ship, and the 
sailors heard him groaning there. He lived 
three hours after they brought him home. Mr. 
Freeman and all our friends were very kind. 
But we like best to be alone, we three, mother 
and James, and I. Poor mother looks twenty 
years older, but she is so patient, and so con- 
cerned for us, and has such a smile of welcome 
for every one that comes in, that it breaks my 
heart to see her. 

Nov. 25. — Mother spoke to me very 

seriously to-day, about controlling myself more. 


30 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 

She said she knew this was my first real sorrow, 
and how hard it was to bear it. But that she 
was afraid I should become insane some time, if 
I indulged myself in such passions of grief. And 
she said, too, that when friends came to see us, 
full of sympathy, and eager to say or do some- 
thing for our comfort, it was our duty to receive 
them with as much cheerfulness as possible. 

I said they, none of them, had anything to 
say that did not provoke me. 

“It is always a trying task to visit the afflict- 
ed,” mother said, “and you make it doubly 
hard to your friends by putting on a gloomy, 
forbidding air, and by refusing to talk of your 
dear father, as if you were resolved to keep your 
sorrow all to y ourself.” 

“ I can’t smile when I am so unhappy,” I said. 
A good many people have been here to-day. 
Mother has seen them all, though she looked 
ready to drop. Mrs. Bates said to me, in her 
little, weak, watery voice : 

“ Your mother is wonderfully sustained, dear.. 
I hope you feel reconciled to God’s will. Re- 
bellion is most displeasing to Him, dear.” 

I made no answer. It is very easy for people 
to preach. Let me see how they behave when 
they take their turn to lose their friends. 

Mrs. Morris said this was a very mysterious 
dispensation. But that she was happy to see 
that mother was meeting it with so much firm- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


31 


ness. “As for myself,” she went on, “ I was 
quite broken down by my dear husband’s death. 
I did not eat as much as would feed a bird, for 
nearly a week. But some people have so much 
feeling ; then again others are so firm. Your 
mother is so busy talking with Mrs. March that 
I won’t interrupt her to say good-bye. Well, I 
came prepared to suggest several things that I 
thought would comfort her, but perhaps she has 
thought of them herself.” 

I could have knocked her down. Firm, in- 
deed ! poor mother ! 

After they had all gone, I made her lie down, 
she looked so tired and worn out. 

Then I could not help telling her what Mrs. 
Morris had said. 

She only smiled a little, but said nothing. 

“I wish you would ever flare up, mother,” I 
said. 

She smiled again, and said she had nothing to 
‘ ‘ flare up ” about. 

“Then I shall do it for you,” I cried. “To 
hear that namby-pamby woman, who is about as 
capable of understanding you as an old cat, 
talking about your being firm ! You see what 
you get by being quiet and patient ! People 
would like you much better if you refused to be 
comforted, and wore a sad countenance.” 

“Dear Katy,” said mother, “it is not my 
first object in life to make people like me.” 


3 2 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


By this time she looked so pale that I was 
frightened. Though she is .so cheerful, and 
things go on much as they did before, I believe 
she has got her death blow. If she has, then I 
hope I have got mine. And yet I am not fit 
to die. I wish I was, and I wish I could die. 
I have lost all interest in everything, and don’t 
care what becomes of me. 

Nov. 23. — I believe I shall go crazy 

unless people stop coming here, hurling volleys 
of texts at mother and at me. When soldiers 
drop wounded on the battle-field, they are taken 
up tenderly and carried ‘ ‘ to the rear, ’ ’ which 
means, I suppose, out of sight and sound. Is 
anybody mad enough to suppose it will do them 
any good to hear Scripture quoted — sermons 
launched at them before their open, bleeding 
wounds are staunched ? 

Mother assents, in a mild way, when I talk 
so and says, “Yes, yes, we are indeed 
lying wounded on the battle-field of life, 
and in no condition to listen to any words 
save those of pity. But, dear Katy, we 
must interpret aright all the well-meant at- 
tempts of our friends to comfort us. They 
mean sympathy, however awkwardly they ex- 
press it.’’ 

And then she sighed, with a long, deep sigh, 
that told how it all wearied her. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


33 


Dec. 14. — Mother keeps saying I spend 

too much time in brooding over my sorrow. As 
for her, she seems to live in heaven. Not that 
she has long prosy talks about it, but little words 
that she lets drop now and then show where her 
thoughts are, and where she would like to be. 
She seems to think everybody is as eager to go 
there as she is. For my part, I am not eager at 
all. I can’t make myself feel that it will be nice 
to sit in rows, all the time singing, fond as I am 
of music. And when I say to myself, “ Of 
course we shall not always sit in rows singing,” 
then I fancy a multitude of shadowy, phantom- 
like beings, dressed in white, moving too and fro 
in golden streets, doing nothing in particular, 
and having a dreary time, without anything to 
look forward to. 

I told mother so. She said earnestly, and yet 
in her sweetest, tenderest way, “ Oh, my darling 
Katy ! What you need is such a living, personal 
love to Christ as shall make the thought of being 
where He is so delightful as to fill your mind 
with that single thought ! ’ ’ 

What is ‘ ‘ personal love to Christ ? ’ ’ 

Oh, dear, dear ! Why need my father have 
been snatched away from me, when so many 
other girls have theirs spared to them ? He 
loved me so ! He indulged me so much ! He 
was so proud of me ! What have I done that I 
should have this dreadful thing happen to me ? 


34 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


I shall never be as happy as I was before. Now 
I shall always be expecting trouble. Yes, I 
suppose mother will go next. Why shouldn’t I 
brood over this sorrow ? I like to brood over it; 
I like to think how wretched I am ; I like to 
have long, furious fits of crying, lying on my 
face on the bed. 

Jan. i, 1832. — People talk a good deal 

about the blessed effects of sorrow. But I do 
not see any good it has done me to lose my dear 
father, and as to mother she was good enough 
before. 

We are going to leave our pleasant home, 
where all of us children were born, and move 
into a house in an out-of-the-way street. By 
selling this, and renting a smaller one, mother 
hopes, with economy, to carry James through 
college. And I must go to Miss Higgins’ school 
because it is less expensive than Mr. Stone’s. 
Miss Higgins, indeed ! I never could bear her ! 
A few months ago, how I should have cried and 
stormed at the idea of her school. But the great 
sorrow swallows up the little trial. 

I tried once more, this morning, as it is the 
first day of the year, to force myself to begin to 
love God. 

I want to do it ; I know I ought to do it ; but 
I cannot. I go through the form of saying 
something that I try to pass off as praying, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


35 


every day now. But I take no pleasure in it, 
as good people say they do, and as I am sure 
mother does. Nobody could live in the house 
with her, and doubt that. 

Jan. io. — We are in our new house now, 

and it is quite a cosy little place. James is at 
home for the long vacation and we are together 
all the time I am out of school. We study and 
sing together, and now and then, when we 
forget that dear father has gone, we are as full 
of fun as ever. If it is so nice to have a brother, 
what must it be to have a sister ! Dear old Jim ! 
He is the very pleasantest, dearest fellow in the 
world ! 

Jan. 15. — I have come to another birth- 
day, and am seventeen. Mother has celebrated 
it just as usual, though I know all these anni- 
versaries, which used to be so pleasant, must be 
sad days to her, now my dear father has gone. 
She has been cheerful and loving, and entered 
into all my pleasures exactly as if nothing had 
happened. I wonder at myself that I do not 
enter more into her sorrows, but though at times 
the remembrance of our loss overwhelms me, my 
natural elasticity soon makes me rise above and 
forget it. And I am absorbed with these school- 
days, that come one after another, in such quick 
succession that I am all the time running to 


3 ^ 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


keep up with them. And as long as I do that I 
forget that death has crossed our threshold, and 
may do it again. But to-night, I feel very sad, 
and as if I would give almost anything to live in 
a world where nothing painful could happen. 
Somehow mother’s pale face haunts and re- 
proaches me. I believe I will go to bed and to 
sleep as quickly as possible, and forget every- 
thing. 


CHAPTER III. 


JUIyY 1 6 . 

My school-days are over ! I have come off 
with flying colors, and mother is pleased at my 
success. I said to her to-day that I should now 
have time to draw and practice to my heart’s 
content. 

“You will not find your heart content with 
either,” she said. 

“Why, mother!” I cried, “I thought you 
liked to see me happy ! ” 

‘ ‘ And so I do, ’ ’ she said quietly. ‘ ‘ But there 
is something better to get out of life than you 
have yet found.” 

“I am sure I hope so,” I returned. On the 
whole I haven’t got much so far. 

Amelia is now on such terms with Jenny 
Underhill that I can hardly see one without 
seeing the other. After the way in which I 
have loved her, this seems rather hard. Some- 
times I am angry about it, and sometimes 
grieved. However, I find Jenny quite nice. She 
buys all the new books and lends them to me. I 
wish I liked more solid reading; but I don’t. 

And I wish I were not so fond of novels ; but I 

(37) 


38 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


am. If it were not for mother I should read 
nothing else. And I am sure I often feel quite 
stirred up by a really good novel, and admire 
and want to imitate every high-minded, noble 
character it describes. 

Jenny has a miniature of her brother “Charley” 
in a locket, which she always wears, and often 
shows me. According to her, he is exactly like 
the heroes I most admire in books. She says 
she knows he would like me if we should meet. 
But that is not probable. Very few like me. 
Amelia says it is because I say just what I think. 

Wednesday. — Mother pointed out to me 

this evening two lines from a book she was read- 
ing, with a significant smile that said they de- 
scribed me : 

“A frank, nnchastened, generous creature, 

Whose faults and virtues stand in bold relief.” 

“Dear me!” I said, “then I have some 
virtues after all ! ” 

And I really think I must have, for Jenny’s 
brother, who has come here for the sake of being 
near her, seems to like me very much. Nobody 
ever liked me so much before, not even Amelia. 
But how foolish to write that down ! 

Thursday. — Jenny’s brother has been 

here all the evening. He has the most perfect 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


39 


manners I ever saw. I am sure that mother, 
who thinks so much of such things, would be 
charmed with him. But she happened to be out, 
Mrs. Jones having sent for her to see about her 
baby. He gave me an account of his mother’s 
death, and how he and Jenny nursed her day 
and night. He has a great deal of feeling. I 
was going to tell him about my father’s death, 
sorrow seems to bring people together so, but I 
could not. Oh, if he had only had a sickness 
that needed our tender nursing, instead of being 
snatched from us in that sudden way ! 

Sunday, Aug. 5. — -Jenny’s brother has 

been to our church all day. He walked home 
with me this afternoon. Mother, after being up 
all night with Mrs. Jones and her baby, was not 
able to go out. 

Dr. Cabot preaches as if we had all got to die 
pretty soon, or else have something almost as 
bad happen to us. How can old people always 
try to make young people feel uncomfortable, 
and as if things couldn’t last? 

Aug. 25. — Jenny says her brother is 

perfectly fascinated with me, and that I must 
try to like him in return. -I suppose mother 
would say my head was turned by my good 
fortune, but it is not. I am getting quite sober 
and serious. It is a great thing to be — to be — 


40 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


well — liked. I have seen some verses of his 
composition to-day that show that he is all heart 
and soul, and would make any sacrifice for one 
he loved. I could not like a man who did not 
possess such sentiments as his. 

Perhaps mother would think I ought not to 
put such things into my journal. 

Jenny has thought of such a splendid plan ! 
What a dear little thing she is ! She and her 
brother are so much alike ! The plan is for us 
three girls, Jenny, Amelia, and myself, to form 
ourselves into a little class to read and to study 
together. She says * ‘ Charley ’ ’ will direct our 
readings and help us with our studies. It is 
perfectly delightful. 

September i. — Somehow I forgot to tell 

mother that Mr. Underhill was to be our teacher. 
So when it came my turn to have the class meet 
here, she was not quite pleased. I told her she 
could stay in the room and watch us, and then 
she would see for herself that we all behaved 
ourselves. 

Sept. 19. — The class met at Amelia’s 
to-night. Mother insisted on sending for me, 
though Mr. Underhill had proposed to see me 
home himself. So he staid after I left. It was 
not quite the thing in him, for he must see that 
Amelia is absolutely crazy about him. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


41 


— - Sept. 28. — We met at Jenny’s this even- 
ing. Amelia had a bad headache and could not 
come. Jenny idled over her lessons, and at last 
took a book and began to read. I studied awhile 
with Mr. Underhill. At last he said, scribbling 
something on a bit of paper, “ here is a sentence 
I hope you can translate.” 

I took it and read these words : 

“ You are the brightest, prettiest, most warm- 
hearted little thing in the world. And I love 
3^ou more than tongue can tell. You must love 
me in the same way.” 

I felt hot and then cold, and then glad and 
then sorry. But I pretended to laugh, and said 
I could not translate Greek. I shall have to 
tell mother, and what will she say ! 

Sept. 29. — This morning mother began 

thus, “ Kate, I do not like these lessons of yours. 
At your age, with your judgment quite un- 
formed, it is not proper that you should spend 
so much time with a young man.” 

“Jenny is always there, and Amelia,” I 
replied. 

“ That makes no difference. I wish the whole 
thing stopped. I do not know what I have been 
thinking of to let it go on so long. Mrs. Gordon 
says ” — 

“Mrs. Gordon! Ha!” I burst out. “I 
knew Amelia was at the bottom of it. Amelia 


42 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


is in love with him up to her very ears, and be- 
cause he does not entirely neglect me, she has 
put her mother up to coming here, meddling and 
making ” — 

“ If what you say of Amelia is true, it is most 
ungenerous in you to tell of it. But I do not 
believe it. Amelia Gordon has too much good 
sense to be carried away by a handsome face and 
agreeable manners.” 

I began to cry. 

“ He likes me,” I got out, “he likes me ever 
so much. Nobody ever was so kind to me 
before. Nobody ever said such nice things to 
me. And I don’t want such horrid things said 
about him.” 

“Has it really come to this!” said mother, 
quite shocked. “Oh, my poor child, how my 
selfish sorrow has made me neglect you.” 

I kept on crying. 

“Is it possible,” she w r ent on, “that with 
your good sense, and the education you have 
had, you are captivated by this mere boy? ” 

“ He is not a boy,” I said. “ He is a man. 
He is twenty years old ; or at least he will be on 
the fifteenth of next October.” 

“The child actually keeps his birthdays!” 
cried mother. “ Oh, my wicked, shameful care- 
lessness. ’ ’ 

“ It’s done now,” I said, desperately. “It is 
too late to help it now.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


43 


“You don’t mean that he has dared to say 
anything without consulting me?” asked mother. 
“And that you have allowed it! Oh, Kathe- 
rine ! ’ ’ 

By this time my mouth shut itself up, and no 
mortal force could open it. I stopped crying, 
and sat with folded arms. Mother said what 
she had to say, and then I came to you, my dear 
old Journal. 

Yes, he likes me and I like him. 

Come now, let’s out with it once for all. 

He loves me and I love him. 

* 

You are just a little bit too late, mother. 

Oct. i. — I never can write down all the 

things that have happened. The very day after 
I wrote Jenny that mother had forbidden my 
going to the class, Charley came to see her, and 
they had a regular fight together. He has told 
me about it since. Then, as he could not pre- 
vail, his uncle wrote, told her it would be the 
making of Charley to be settled down on one 
young lady instead of hovering from flower to 
flower, as he was doing now. Then Jenny came 
with her pretty ways, and cried, and told mother 
what a darling brother Charley was. She made 
a good deal, too, out of his having lost both 
father and mother, and needing my affection so 
much. Mother shut herself up, and I have no 
doubt prayed over it. I really believe she prays 


44 


STEPPING IIE A VENWARD. 


over every new dress she buys. Then she sent 
for me and talked beautifully, and I behaved 
abominably. 

At last she said she would put us on one year’s 
probation. Charley might spend one evening 
here every two weeks, when she should always 
be present. We were never to be seen together 
m public, nor would she allow us to correspond. 
If, at the end of the year, we were both as eager 
for it as we are now, she would consent to our 
engagement. Of course we shall be, so I con- 
sider myself as good as engaged now. Dear me ! 
how funny it seems. 

Oct. 2. — Charley is not at all pleased 

with mother’s terms, but no one would guess it 
from his manner to her. His coming is always 
the signal for her trotting down stairs ; he goes 
to meet her and offers her a chair, as if he was 
delighted to see her. We go on with the lessons, 
as this gives us a chance to sit pretty close 
together, and when I am writing my exercises , 
and he corrects them, I rather think a few little 
things get on to the paper that sound nicely to 
us, but w r ould not strike mother very agreeably. 
For instance, last night Charley w^rote : 

“Is your mother never sick? A nice little 
headache or two would be so convenient to us ! ’ ’ 

And I wrote back: “You dear old horrid 
thing ! How can you be so selfish ? ’ ’ 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


45 


Jan. 15, 1833. — I have been trying to 

think whether I am any happier to-day than I 
was at this time a year ago. If I am not, I 
suppose it is the tantalizing way in which I am 
placed in regard to Charley. We have so much 
to say to each other that we can’t say before 
mother, and that we cannot say in writing, be- 
cause a correspondence is one of the forbidden 
things. He says he entered into no contract not 
to write, and keeps slipping little notes into my 
hand ; but I don’t think that quite right. Mother 
hears us arguing and disputing about it, though 
she does not know the subject under discussion, 
and to-day she said to me : “I would not argue 
with him, if I were you. He never will yield.” 
“ But it is a case of conscience,” I said, “and 
he ought to yield.” 

“ There is no obstinacy like that of a f ,” 

she began and stopped short. 

“Oh, you may as well finish it!” I cried. 
“ I know you think him a fool.” 

Then mother burst out : “ Oh, my child,” 

she said, “ before it is too late, do be persuaded 
by me to give up this whole thing. I shrink 
from paining or offending you, but it is my duty, 
as your mother, to warn you against a marriage 
that will make shipwreck of your happiness.” 
“Marriage /” I fairly shrieked out. That is 
the last thing I have ever thought of. I felt a 
chill creep over me. All I had wanted was to 


4 6 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


have Charley come here every day, take me out 
now and then, and care for nobody else. 

“Yes, marriage /” mother repeated. “For 
what is the meaning of an engagement if mar- 
riage is not to follow ? How can you fail to see, 
what I see, oh ! so plainly, that Charley Under- 
hill never, never can meet the requirements of 
your soul. You are captivated by what girls of 
your age call beauty, regular features, a fair 
complexion and soft eyes. His flatteries delude, 
and his professions of affection gratify you. 
You do not see that he is shallow, and con- 
ceited, and selfish, and — ” 

“Oh, mother! How can you be so unjust? 
His whole study seems to be to please others.” 

“ Seems to be — that is true,” she replied. 
“ His ruling passion is love of admiration ; the 
little pleasing acts that attract you are so many 
traps set to catch the attention and the favorable 
opinion of those about him. He has not one 
honest desire to please because it is right to be 
pleasing. Oh, my precious child, what a fatal 
mistake you are making in relying on your own 
judgment in this, the most important of earthly 
decisions !” 

I felt very angry. 

“ I thought the Bible forbid back-biting,” I 
said. 

Mother made no reply, except by a look which 
said about a hundred and forty different things. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


47 


And then I came lip here and wrote some poetry, 
which was very good (for me), though I don’t 
suppose she 'would think so. 

Oct. i. — The year of probation is over, 

and I have nothing to do now but to be happy. 
But being engaged is not half so nice as I ex- 
pected it would be. I suppose it is owing to my 
being obliged to defy mother’s judgment in 
order to gratify my own. People say she has 
great insight into character, and sees, at a glance, 
what others only learn after much study. 

Oct. io. — I have taken a dreadful cold. 

It is too bad. I dare say I shall be coughing all 
winter, and instead of going out with Charley, 
be shut up at home. 

Oct. 12. — Charley says he did not know 

that I was subject to a cough, and that he hopes 
I am not consumptive, because his father and 
mother both died of consumption, and it makes 
him nervous to hear people cough. I nearly 
strangled myself all the evening trying not to 
annoy him with mine. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Nov. 2. 

I really think I am sick and going to die. 
East night I raised a little blood. I dare not 
tell mother, it would distress her so, but I am 
sure it came from my lungs. Charley said last 
week he really must stay away till I got better, 
for my cough sounded like his mother’s. I 
have been very lonely, and have shed some 
tears, but most of the time have been too sor- 
rowful to cry. If we were married, and I had a 
cough, would he go and leave me, I wonder ? 

Sunday i8tli. — Poor mother is dread- 
fully anxious about me. But I don’t see how 
she can love me so, after the way I have be- 
haved. I wonder if, after all, mothers are not 
the best friends there are ! I keep her awake 
with my cough all night, and am mopy and 
cross all day, but she is just as kind and affec- 
tionate as she can be. 

Nov. 25. — The day I wrote that was 

Sunday. I could not go to church, and I felt 

very forlorn and desolate. I tried to get some 

(48) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


49 


• 

comfort by praying, but when I got on my 
knees, I just burst out crying and could not say 
a word. For I have not seen Charley for ten 
days. As I knelt there I began to think myself 
a perfect monster of selfishness for wanting him 
to spend his evenings with me, now that I am 
so unwell and annoy him so with my cough, 
and I asked myself if I ought not to break off 
the engagement altogether, if I was really in a 
consumption, the very disease Charles dreaded 
most of all. It seemed such a proper sacrifice 
to make of myself. Then I prayed — yes, I am 
sure I really prayed as I had not done for more 
than a year, and the idea of self-sacrifice grew 
every moment more beautiful in my eyes, till at 
last I felt an almost joyful triumph in writing to 
poor Charley, and telling him what I had re- 
solved to do. 

This is my letter : 

My Dear, Dear Chareey : — I dare not tell 
you w r hat it costs me to say what I am about 
to do ; but I am sure you know me well enough 
by this time to believe that it is only because 
your happiness is far more precious to me than 
my own, that I have decided to write you this 
letter. When you first told me that you loved 
me, you said, and you have often said so since 
then, that it was my “brightness and gayety ” 
that attracted you. I knew there was some- 
thing underneath my gayety better worth your 


50 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


love, and was glad I could give you more 
than you asked for. I knew I was not a mere 
thoughtless, laughing girl, but that I had a 
heart as wide as the ocean to give you — as wide 
and as deep. 

But now my ‘ ‘ brightness and gayety ’ ’ have 
gone ; I am sick, and perhaps am going to die. 
If this is so it would be very sweet to have your 
love go with me to the very gates of death, and 
beautify and glorify my path thither. But what 
a weary task this would be to you, my poor 
Charley ! And so, if you think it best, and it 
would relieve you of any care and pain, I 'will 
release you from our engagement and set you 
free. Your Little Katy. 

I did not sleep at all that night. Early on 
Monday I sent off my letter, and my heart 
beat so hard all day that I was tired and faint. 
Just at dark his answer came; I can copy it 
from memory. 

Dear Kate: — What a generous, self-sacri- 
ficing little thing you are ! I always thought so, 
but now you have given me a noble proof of it. 
I will own that I have been disappointed to find 
your constitution so poor, and that it has been 
very dull sitting and hearing you cough, especi- 
ally as I was reminded of the long and tedious 
illness through which poor Jenny and myself 
had to nurse our mother. I vowed then never 
to marry a consumptive woman, and I thank 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


51 


you for making it so easy for me to bring our 
engagement to an end. My bright hopes are 
blighted, and it will be long before I shall find 
another to fill your place. I need not say how 
much I sympathize with you in this disappoint- 
ment. I hope the consolations of religion will 
now be yours. Your notes, the lock of your 
hair, etc., I return with this. I will not re- 
proach you for the pain you have cost me ; I 
know it is not your fault that your health has 
become so frail. 

I remain your sincere friend, 

Charles Underhill. 

Jan. 1, 1834. — Let me finish this story 

if I can. 

My first impulse after reading his letter was 
to fly to mother, and hide away forever in her 
dear, loving arms. 

But I restrained myself, and with my heart 
beating so that I could hardly hold my pen, I 
wrote this : — 

Mr. Underhill : Sir — The scales have fallen 
from my eyes, and I see you at last just as you 
are. Since my note to you on Sunday last, I 
have had a consultation of physicians, and they 
all agree that my disease is not of an alarming 
character, and that I shall soon recover. But I 
thank God that before it was too late, you have 
been revealed to me just as you are — a heartless, 


5 2 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


selfish, .shallow creature, unworthy the love of a 
true-hearted woman, unworthy even of your 
own self-respect. I gave you an opportunity to 
withdraw from our engagement in full faith, 
loving you so truly that I was ready to go trem- 
bling to my grave alone if you shrank from 
sustaining me to it. But I see now that I did 
not dream for one moment that you would take 
me at my word and leave me to my fate. I 
thought I loved a man , and could lean on him 
when strength failed me. I know now that I 
loved a mere creature of my imagination. Take 
back your letters ; I loathe the sight of them. 
Take back the ring, and find, if you can, a 
woman who never will be sick, never out of 
spirits, and who never will die. Thank heaven 
it is not Katherine Mortimer. 

These lines came to me in reply : 

“Thank God it is not Kate Mortimer. I 
want an angel for my wife, not a vixen. 

c. u.” 


Jan. 15. — What a tempest-tossed crea- 
ture this birthday finds me ! But let me finish 
this wretched, disgraceful story, if I can, before 
I quite lose my senses. 

I showed my mother the letters. She burst 
into tears, and opened her arms, and I ran into 
them as a wounded bird flies into the ark. We 
cried together. Mother never said, never look- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


53 


ed, “ I told you so.” All she did say was this : 

God has heard my prayers ! He is reserving 
better things for my child ! ’ ’ 

Dear mother’s are not the only arms I have 
flown to. But it does not seem as if God ought 
to take me in because I am in trouble, when I 
would not go to Him when I was happy in 
something else. But even in the midst of my 
greatest felicity I had many and many a mis- 
giving ; many a season when my conscience 
upbraided me for my wilfulness towards my dear 
mother, and my whole soul yearned for some- 
thing higher and better even than Charley’s 
love, precious as it was. 

Jan. 26. — I have shut myself up in my 

room to-day to think over things. The end of it 
is that I am full of mortification and confusion of 
face. If I had only had confidence in mother’s 
judgement I should never have got entangled in 
this silly engagement. I see now that Charley 
could never have made me happy, and I know 
there is a good deal in my heart he never called 
out. I wish, however, I had not written him 
when I was in such a passion. No wonder he is 
thankful that he has got free from such a vixen. 
But, oh ! the provocation was terrible ! 

I have made up my mind never to tell a 
human soul about this affair. It will be so 
high-minded and honorable to shield him thus 


54 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


from the contempt he deserves. With all my 
faults I am glad that there is nothing mean 
or little about me ! 

Jan. 27. — I can’t bear to write it down, 

but I will. The ink was hardly dry yesterday 
on the above self-laudation, when Amelia came. 
She had been out of town, and had only just 
learned what had happened. Of course she was 
curious to know the whole story. 

And I told it to her, every word of it ! Oh, 
Kate Mortimer, how “high-minded” you are! 
How free from all that is “mean and little!” 
I could tear my hair if it would do any good ! 

Amelia defended Charley, and I was thus led 
on to say every harsh thing of him I could think 
of. She said he was of so sensitive a nature, 
had so much sensibility, and such a constitu- 
tional aversion to seeing suffering, that for her 
part she could not blame him. 

“It is such a pity that you had not had your 
lungs examined before you wrote that first let- 
ter,” she went on. “ But you are so impulsive ! 
If you only had waited you would be engaged 
to Charley, still ! ” 

“I am thankful I did not wait,” I cried 
angrily. “Do, Amelia, drop the subject for- 
ever. You and I shall never agree upon it. 
The truth is, you are two-tliirds in love with 
him, and have been, all along.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


55 


She colored, and laughed, and actually looked 
pleased. If any one had made such an outra- 
geous speech to me, I should have been furious. 

“I suppose you know,” said she, “that old 
Mr. Underhill has taken such a fancy to him 
that he has made him his heir, and he is as rich 
as a Jew.” 

“ Indeed ! ” I said, dryly. 

I wonder if mother knew it when she opposed 
our engagement so strenuously. 

Jan. 31. — I have asked her, and she said 

she did. Mr. Underhill told her his intentions 
when he urged her to consent to the engage- 
ment. Dear mother ! How unworldly, how 
unselfish she is ! 

Feb. 4. — The name of Charley Underhill 

appears on these pages for the last time. He is 
engaged to Amelia ! From this moment she is 
lost to me forever. How desolate, how morti- 
fied, how miserable I am ! Who could have 
thought this of Amelia ! She came to see me, 
radiant with joy. I concealed my disgust until 
she said that Charley felt now that he had never 
really loved me, but had preferred her all along, 
then I burst out. What I said I do not know, 
and do not care. The whole thing is so dis- 
graceful that I should be a stock or a stone not 
to resent it. 


56 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Feb. 5. — After yesterday’s passion of 

grief, shame, and anger, I feel perfectly stupid 
and languid. Oh, that I was prepared for a 
better world, and could fly to it and be at rest ! 

Feb. 6 . — Now that it is all over, how 

ashamed I am of the fury I have been in, and 
which has given Amelia such advantage over 
me ! I was beginning to believe that I was 
really living a feeble and fluttering, but real 
Christian life, and finding some satisfaction in 
it. But that is all over now. I am doomed 
to be a victim of my own unstable, passion- 
ate, wayward nature, and the sooner I settle 
down into that conviction, the better. And 
yet how my very soul craves the highest hap- 
piness and refuses to be comforted while that is 
wanting. 


Feb. 7. — After writing that, I do not 

know what made me go to see Dr. Cabot. He 
received me in that cheerful way of his that 
seems to promise the taking of one’s burden 
right off one’s back. 

“ I am very glad to see you, my dear child,” 
he said. 

I intended to be very dignified and cold. As 
if I was going to have any Dr. Cabots under- 
taking to sympathize with vie! But those few 
kind words just upset me, and I began to cry. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


57 


“You would not speak so kindly,” I got out 
at last, “if you knew what a dreadful creature 
I am. I am angry with myself, and angry with 
everybody, and angry with God. I can’t be 
good two minutes at a time. I do everything I 
do not want to do, and do nothing I try and 
pray to do. Everybody plagues me and tempts 
me. And God does not answer any of my 
prayers, and I am just desperate.” 

“Poor child!” he said in a low voice, as if 
to himself. “Poor, heart-sick, tired child, that 
cannot see what I can see, that its Father’s 
loving arms are all about it ! ” 

I stopped crying, to strain my ears to listen. 
He went on. 

“ Katy, all that you say may be true. I dare 
say it is. But God loves you. He loves you.” 
“He loves me,” I repeated to myself. “He 
loves me.” “Oh, Dr. Cabot, if I could believe 
that ! If I could believe that, after all the 
promises I have broken, all the foolish, wrong 
things I have done, and shall always be doing, 
God perhaps still loves me ! ’ ’ 

“You may be sure of it,” he said, solemnly. 
“ I, his minister, bring the gospel to you to-day. 
Go home and say over and over to yourself, ‘ I 
am a wayward, foolish child. But he loves me ! 
I have disobeyed and grieved Him ten thousand 
times. But He loves me ! I have lost faith in 
some of my dearest friends and am very desolate. 


58 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


But He loves me ! I do not love Him, I am 
even angry with Him ! But He loves me ! ” 

I came away, and all the way home I fought 
this battle with myself, saying, “He loves 
me!” I knelt down to pray, and all my wasted, 
childish, wicked life came and stared me in the 
face. I looked at it, and said with tears of joy, 
“But he loves me!” Never in my life did I 
feel so rested, so quieted, so sorrowful, and yet 
so satisfied. 

Feb. io. — What a beautiful world this 

is, and how full it is of truly kind, good people ! 
Mrs. Morris was here this morning, and just one 
squeeze of that long, } T ellow old hand of hers 
seemed to speak a book-ful ! I wonder why I 
have always disliked her so, for she is realh^ an 
excellent woman. I gave her a good kiss to pay 
her for the sympathy she had sense enough not 
to put into canting words, and if you will be- 
lieve it, dear old Journal, the tears came into her 
eyes, and she said, “You are one of the Ford’s 
beloved ones, though you do not know it.” 

I repeated again to myself those sweet, myste- 
rious words, and then I tried to think what I 
could do for Him. But I could not think of 
anything great or good enough. I went into 
mother’s room and put my arms around her and 
told her how I loved her. She looked surprised 
and pleased. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


59 


“Ah, I knew it would come ! ” she said, lay- 
ing her hand on her Bible. 

‘ ‘ Knew what would come, mother ? ’ ’ 

“ Peace " she said. 

I came back here and wrote a little note to 
Amelia, telling her how ashamed and sorry I 
was that I could not control myself the other 
day. Then I wrote a long letter to James. I 
have been very careless about writing to him. 

Then I began to hem those handkerchiefs 
mother asked me to finish a month ago. But I 
could not think of anything to do for God. I 
wish I could. It makes me so happy to think 
that all this time, while I w 7 as caring for nobody 
but myself, and fancying He must almost hate 
me, He was loving and pitying me. 

Feb. 15. — I went to see Dr. Cabot again 

to-day. He came down from his study with his 
pen in his hand. 

“ How dare you come and spoil my sermon on 
Saturday ? ” he asked, good-humoredly. 

Though he seemed full of loving-kindness, I 
was ashamed of my thoughtlessness. Though I 
did not know 7 he was particularly busy on Satur- 
days. If I were a minister I am sure I would 
get my sermons done early in the week. 

“I only wanted to ask one thing,” I said. 
“ I want to do something for God. And I can- 
not think of anything unless it is to go on a 


6o 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


mission. And mother would never let me do 
that. She thinks girls with delicate health are 
not fit for such work.” 

“At all events I would not go to-day,” he re- 
plied. ‘ ‘ Meanwhile do everything yo\i do for Him 
who has loved you and given Himself for you.” 

I did not dare stay any longer, and so I came 
away quite puzzled. Dinner was ready, and as I 
sat down to the table, I said to myself, “ I eat this 
dinner for myself, not for God. What can Dr. 
Cabot mean ? ’ ’ Then I remembered the text 
about doing all for the glory of God, even in eating 
and drinking ; but I do not understand it at all. 

Feb. 19. — It has seemed to me for seve- 
ral days that it must be that I really do love 
God, though ever so little. But it shot through 
my mind to-day like a knife, that it is a miser- 
able, selfish love at the best, not worth my 
giving, not worth God’s accepting. All my old 
misery has come back with seven other miseries 
more miserable than itself. I wish I had never 
been born ! I wish I were thoughtless and 
careless, like so many other girls of my age, 
who seem to get along very well and to enjoy 
themselves far more than I do. 

Feb. 21. — Dr. Cabot came to see me 

to-day. I told him all about it. He could not 
help smiling as he said : 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


61 


‘ ‘ When I see a little infant caressing its 
mother, would you have me say to it, ‘ You 
selfish child, how dare you pretend to caress 
your mother in that way? You are quite unable 
to appreciate her character ; you love her merely 
because she loves you, treats you kindly ! * ” 

It was my turn to smile now, at my own folly. 
“You are as yet but a babe in Christ,” Dr. 
Cabot continued. “You love your God and 
Saviour because He first loved you. The time 
will come when the character of your love will 
become changed into one which sees and feels 
the beauty and the perfection of its object, and 
if you could be assured that he no longer looked 
on you with favor, you would still cling to Him 
with devoted affection.” 

“ There is one thing more that troubles me,” 
I said. “ Most persons know the exact moment 
when they begin real Christian lives. But I do 
not know of any such time in my history. This 
causes me many uneasy moments.” 

“You are wrong in thinking that most per- 
sons have this advantage over you. I believe 
that the children of Christian parents, who have 
been judiciously trained, rarely can point to any 
day or hour when they begin to live this new 
life. The question is not, do you remember, 
my child, when you entered into this world, and 
how ? It is simply this, are you now alive and 
an inhabitant thereof ? And now it is my turn 


62 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


to ask you a question. How happens it that 
you, who have a mother of rich and varied 
experience, allow yourself to be tormented with 
these petty anxieties which she is as capable of 
dispelling as I am?” 

“I do not know,” I answered. “But we 
girls can't talk to our mothers about any of our 
sacred feelings, and we hate to have them talk 
to us.” 

Dr. Cabot shook his head. 

“There is something wrong somewhere,” he 
said. “A young girl’s mother is her natural 
refuge in every perplexity. I hoped that you, 
who have rather more sense than most girls of 
your age, could give me some idea what the 
difficulty is.” 

After he had gone, I am ashamed to own that 
I was in a perfect flutter of delight at what he 
had said about my having more sense than most 
girls. Meeting poor mother on the stairs while 
in this exalted state of mind, I gave her a very 
short answer to a kind question, and made her 
unhappy, as I have made myself. 

It is just a year ago to-day that I got fright- 
ened at my novel reading propensities, and re- 
solved not to look into one for twelve months. 
I was getting to dislike all other books, and 
night after night sat up late, devouring every- 
thing exciting I could get hold of. One Satur- 
day night I sat up till the clock struck twelve, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


6 3 


to finish one, and the next morning I was so 
sleepy that I had to stay at home from church. 
Now I hope and believe the back of this taste is 
broken, and that I shall never be a slave to it 
again. Indeed it does not seem to me now that 
I shall ever care for such books again. 

— — Feb. 24. — Mother spoke to me this morn- 
ing for the fiftieth time, I really believe, about 
my disorderly habits. I don’t think I am care- 
less because I like confusion, but the trouble is 
I am always in a hurry and a ferment about 
something. If I want anything, I want it very 
much, and right away. So if I am looking for 
a book, or a piece of music, or a pattern, I 
tumble everything around, and can’t stop to put 
them to rights. I wish I were not so eager 
and impatient. But I mean to try and keep 
my room and my drawers in order, to please 
mother. 

She says, too, that I am growing careless 
about my hair and my dress. But that is be- 
cause my mind is so full of graver, more im- 
portant things. I thought I ought to be wholly 
occupied with my duty to God. But mother 
says duty to God includes duty to one’s neigh- 
bor, and that untidy hair, put up in all sorts 
of rough bunches, rumpled cuffs and collars, 
and all that sort of thing, make one offensive to 
all one meets. I am sorry she thinks so, for I 


64 


STEPPING HE A VENJVARD. 


find it very convenient to twist up my hair 
almost any how, and it takes a good deal of 
time to look after collars and cuffs. 

March 14. — To-day I feel discouraged 

and disappointed. I certainly thought that if 
God really loved me, and I really loved Him, I 
should find myself growing better day by day. 
But I am not improved in the least. Most of 
the time I spend on my knees I am either stupid, 
feeling nothing at all, or else my head is full of 
what I was doing before I began to pray, or 
what I am going to do as soon as I get through. 
I do not believe anybody else in the world is 
like me in this respect. Then when I feel dif- 
ferently, and can make a nice glib prayer, wfith 
floods of tears running down my cheeks, I get 
all puffed up, and think how much pleased God 
must be to see me so fervent in spirit. I .go 
down-stairs in this frame of mind and begin to 
scold Susan for misplacing my music, till all of 
a sudden I catch myself doing it, and stop 
short, crestfallen and confounded. I have so 
many such experiences that I feel like a baby 
just learning to walk, who is so afraid of falling 
that it has half a mind to sit down once for all. 

Then there is another thing. Seeing mother 
so fond of Thomas a Kempis, I have been read- 
ing it, now and then, and am not fond of it at 
all. From beginning to end it exhorts to self- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


65 


denial in every form and shape. Must I then 
give up all hope of happiness in this world and 
modify all my natural tastes and desires? Oh, 
I do love so to be happy ! And I do so hate 
to suffer ! The very thought of being sick, or 
of being forced to nurse sick people, with all 
their cross ways, and of losing my friends, or of 
having to live w r ith disagreeable people, makes 
me shudder. I want to please God, and to be 
like Him. I certainly do. But I am so young, 
and it is so natural to want to have a good time ! 
And now I am in for it I may as well tell the 
whole story. When I read the lives of good 
men and women who have died and gone to 
heaven, I find they all liked to sit and think 
about God and about Christ. Now I don't. I 
often try, but my mind flies off in a tangent. 
The truth is I am perfectly discouraged. 

March 17. — I went to see Dr. Cabot to- 
day but he was out, so I thought I would ask 
for Mrs. Cabot, though I was determined not to 
tell her any of my troubles. But somehow she 
got the whole story out of me, and instead of 
being shocked, as I expected she would be, she 
actually burst out laughing ! She recovered 
herself immediately, however. 

“ Do excuse me for laughing at you, you dear 
child you!” she said. “But I remember so 
well how I used to flounder through just such 


66 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


needless anxieties, and life looks so different, so 
very different, to me now, from what it did 
then ! What should you think of a man, who 
having just sowed his field, was astonished not 
to see it at once ripe for the harvest, because his 
neighbor’s, after long months of waiting, was 
just being gathered in ?” 

“ Do you mean,” I asked, “ that by and by I 
shall naturally come to feel and think as other 
good people do ?’ ’ 

“Yes, I do. You must make the most of 
what little Christian life you have ; be thankful 
God has given you so much, cherish it, pray 
over it, and guard it like the apple of your eye. 
Imperceptibly, but surely, it will grow, and keep 
on growing, for this is its nature.” 

“ But I don’t want to wait,” I said, despond- 
ently. “ I have just been reading a delightful 
book, full of stories of heroic deeds — not fables, 
but histories of real events and real people. It 
has quite stirred me up, and made me wish to 
possess such beautiful heroism, and that I were 
a man, that I might have a chance to perform 
some truly noble, self-sacrificing acts.” 

“ I dare say y^our chance will come,” she re- 
plied, ‘ c though you are not a man. I fancy we 
all get, more or less, what we want.” 

“Do you really think so? Bet me see then, 
what I want most. But I am staying too long ? 
Were you particularly busy ?” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


67 


“ No,” she returned smilingly, “ I am learn- 
ing ‘ that the man who wants me is the man I 
want.’ ” 

“ You are very good to say so. Well, in the 
first place, I do really and truly want to be good. 
Not with common goodness, you know, but” — 

“ But wwcommon goodness,” she put in. 

“ I mean that I want to be very, very good. 
I should like next best to be learned and accom- 
plished. Then I should want to be perfectly 
well and perfectly happy. And a pleasant home 
of course, I must have, with friends to love me, 
and like me, too. And I can’t get along with- 
out some pretty, tasteful things about me. But 
you are laughing at me ! Have I said anything 
foolish ?’ ’ 

“ If I laughed, it was not at you, but at poor 
human nature, that would fain grasp everything 
at once. Allowing that you should possess all 
you have just described, where is the heroism 
you so much admire to find room for exercise?” 

“ That’s just what I was saying. That is just 
what troubles me.” 

“ To be sure, while perfectly well and happy, 
in a pleasant home, with friends to love and 
admire you” — - 

“ Oh, I did not say admire,” I interrupted. 

“ That was just what you meant, my dear.” 

I am afraid it was, now I come to think it 


over. 


68 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“Well, with plenty of friends, good in an un- 
common way, accomplished, learned, and sur- 
rounded with pretty and tasteful objects, your 
life w ? ill certainly be in danger of not proving 
very sublime.” 

“ It is a great pity,” I said, musingly. 

“ Suppose then, you content yourself for the 
present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent 
way, all the little, homely tasks that return with 
each returning day, each one as unto God, and 
perhaps by and by you will thus have gained 
strength for a more heroic life.” 

“ But I don’t know how.” 

“ You have some little home duties, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“ Yes ; I have the care of my own room, and 
mother wants me to have a general oversight of 
the parlor ; you know we have but one parlor 
now. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Is that all you have to do ?’ ’ 

“ Why, my music and drawing take up a good 
deal of my time, and I read and study more or 
less, and go out some, and we have a good many 
visitors. ’ ’ 

“ I suppose, then, you keep your room in nice, 
ladylike order, and that the parlor is dusted 
every morning, loose music put out of the way, 
books restored to their places,” — • 

“ Now I know mother has been telling you.” 

“ Your mother has told me nothing at all.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


69 


“Well, then,” I said, laughing, but a little 
ashamed, “ I don’t keep my room in nice order, 
and mother really sees to the parlor herself, 
though I pretend to do it.” 

“ And is she never annoyed by this neglect? ” 
“ O, yes, very much annoyed.” 

“Then, dear Katy, suppose your first act of 
heroism to-morrow should be the gratifying your 
mother in these little things, little though they 
are. Surely, your first duty, next to pleasing 
God, is to please your mother, and in every pos- 
sible way to sweeten and beautify her life. You 
may depend upon it that a life of real heroism 
and self-sacrifice must begin and lay its founda- 
tion in this little world, wherein it learns its 
first lesson and takes its first steps.” 

“And do you really think that God notices 
such little things? ” 

“ My dear child, what a question ! If there 
is any one truth I would gladly impress on the 
mind of a young Christian, it is just this that 
God notices the most trivial act, accepts the 
poorest, most threadbare little service, listens to 
the coldest, feeblest petition, and gathers up 
with parental fondness all our fragmentary 
desires and attempts at good works. Oh, if we 
could only begin to conceive how He loves us, 
what different creatures we should be ! ” 

I felt inspired by her enthusiasm, though I 
don’t think I quite understand what she means. 


70 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 

1 did not dare to stay any longer, for, with her 
great host of children, she must have her hands 
full. 


March 25. — Mother is very much aston- 
ished to see how nicely I am keeping things in 
order. I was flying about this morning, singing, 
and dusting the furniture, when she came in 
and began, “ He that is faithful in that which is 
least ” — but I ran at her with my brush, and 
would not let her finish. I really, really don’t 
deserve to be praised. For I have been thinking 
that, if it is true that God notices every little 
thing we do to please Him, He must also notice 
every cross word we speak, every shrug of the 
shoulders, every ungracious look, and that they 
displease Him. And my list of such offences is 
as long as my life ! 

March 29. — Yesterday for the first time 
since that dreadful blow, I felt some return of 
my natural gayety and cheerfulness. It seemed 
to come hand in hand with my first real effort to 
go so far out of myself as to try to do exactly 
what would gratify dear mother. 

But to-day I am all down again. I miss 
Amelia’s friendship, for one thing. To be sure 
I wonder how I ever came to love such a super- 
ficial character so devotedly, but I must have 
somebody to love, and perhaps I invented a 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


7i 


lovely creature, and called it by her name, and 
bowed down to it and worshiped it. I certainly 
did so in regard to him whose heartless cruelty 
has left me so sad, so desolate. 

Evening. — Mother has been very patient 

and forbearing with me all day. To-night, after 
tea, she said, in her gentlest, tenderest way : 

“ Dear Katy, I feel very sorry for you. But 
I see one path which you have not yet tried, 
which can lead you out of these sore straits. 
You have tried living for yourself a good many 
years, and the result is great weariness and 
heaviness of soul. Try now to live for others. 
Take a class in the Sunday-school. Go with me 
to visit my poor people. You will be astonished 
to find how much suffering and sickness there is 
in this world, and how delightful it is to sympa- 
thize with and try to relieve it.” 

This advice was very repugnant to me. My 
time is pretty fully occupied with my books, my 
music and my drawing. And of all places in 
the world I hate a sick-room. But, on the 
whole, I will take a class in the Sunday-school. 


CHAPTER V. 


April 6. 

I have taken it at last. I would not take one 
before, because I knew I could not teach little 
children to love God, until I loved Him myself. 
My class is perfectly delightful. There are 
twelve dear little things in it, of all ages between 
eight and nine. Eleven are girls, and the one 
boy makes me more trouble than all of them put 
together. When I get them all about me, and 
their sweet innocent faces look up into mine, I 
am so happy that I can hardly help stopping 
every now and then to kiss them. They ask 
the very strangest questions ! I mean to spend 
a great deal of time in preparing the lesson, and 
in hunting up stories to illustrate it. Oh, I am 
so glad I was ever born into this beautiful world, 
where there will always be dear little children to 
love ! 


April 13. — Sunday has come again, and 

with it my darling little class ! Dr. Cabot has 
preached delightfully all day, and I feel that I 
begin to understand his preaching better, and 

that it must do me good. I long, I truly long to 

(72) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


73 


please God ; I long to feel as the best Christians 
feel and to live as they live. 

April 20. — Now that I have these twelve 

little ones to instruct, I am more than ever in 
earnest about setting them a good example 
through the week. It is true they do not, most 
of them, know how I spend my time, nor how 
I act. But / know, and whenever I am con- 
scious of not practicing what I preach, I am 
bitterly ashamed and grieved. How much 
work, badly done, I am now having to undo ! 
If I had begun earnestly to serve God when I 
was as young as these children are, how many 
wrong habits I should have avoided ; habits 
that entangle me now, as in so many nets. I 
am trying to take each of these little gentle 
girls by the hand and to lead her to Christ. 
Poor Johnny Ross is not so docile as they are, 
and tries my patience to the last degree. 

April 27. — This morning I had all my 

little flock about me and talked to them out of 
the very bottom of my heart about Jesus. They 
left their seats and got close to me in a circle, 
leaning on my lap and drinking in every word. 
All of a sudden I was aware, as by a magnetic 
influence, that a great lumbering man in the 
next seat was looking at me out of two of the 
blackest eyes I ever saw, and evidently listening 


74 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


to what I was saying. What impertinence ! 
What rudeness ! I am sure he must have seen 
my displeasure in my face, for he got up what I 
suppose he meant for a blush, that is he turned 
several shades darker than he was before, giving 
one the idea that he is full of black rather than 
red blood. I should not have remembered it, 
however — by it, I mean his impertinence — if he 
had not .shortly after made a really excellent 
address to the children. Perhaps it was a little 
above their comprehension, but it showed a good 
deal of thought and earnestness. I meant to 
ask who he was, but forgot it. 

This has been a delightful Sunday. I have 
really feasted on Dr. Cabot's preaching. But I 
am satisfied that there is something in religion 
I do not yet apprehend. I do wish I posi- 
tively knew that God had forgiven and accepted 
me. 


May 6. — Last evening Clara Ray had a 

little party and I was there. She has a great 
knack at getting the right sort of people together, 
and of making them enjoy themselves. 

I sang several songs, and so did Clara, but 
they all said my voice was finer and in better 
training than hers. It is delightful to be with 
cultivated, agreeable people. I could have staid 
all night, but mother sent for me before any 
one else had thought of going. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


75 


— May 7. — I have been on a charming ex- 
cursion to-day, with Clara Ray and all her set. 
I was rather tired, but had an invitation to a 
concert, this evening, which I could not resist. 

July 21. — So much has been going on 

that I have not had time to write. There is no 
end to the picnics, drives, parties, etc., this 
summer. I am afraid that I am not getting on 
at all. My prayers are dull and short, and full 
of wandering thoughts. I am brimful of viva- 
city and good humor in company, and as soon 
as I get home am stupid and peevish. I suppose 
this will always be so, as it always has been ; 
and I declare I would rather be so than such 
a vapid, flat creature as Mary Jones, or such a 
dull, heavy one as big Lucy Merrill. 

July 24.— Clara Ray says the girls think 

me reckless and imprudent in speech. I’ve a 
good mind not to go with her set any more. I 
am afraid I have been a good deal dazzled by 
the attentions I have received of late ; and now 
comes this blow at my vanity. 

On the whole, I feel greatly out of sorts this 
evening. 

July 28. — People talk about happiness 

to be found in a Christian life. I wonder why 
I do not find more ! On Sundays I am pretty 
good, and always seem to start afresh ; but on 


76 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


week-days I am drawn along with those about 
me. All my pleasures are innocent ones ; there 
is surely no harm in going to concerts, driving 
out, singing, and making little visits ! But 
these things distract me ; they absorb me ; they 
make religious duties irksome. I almost wish I 
could shut myself up in a cell, and so get out of 
the reach of temptation. 

The truth is, the journey heavenward is all 
up hill. I have to force myself to keep on. 
The wonder is that anybody gets there with so 
much to oppose — so little to help one ! 

July 29. — It is high time to stop and 

think. I have been like one running a race, 
and am stopping to take breath. I do not like 
the way in which things have been going on of 
late. I feel restless and ill at ease. I see that 
if I would be happy in God, I must give Him 
all. And there is a wicked reluctance to do 
that. I want Him — but I want to have my own 
way, too. I want to walk humbly and softly 
before Him, and I want to go where I shall 
be admired and applauded. To whom shall I 
yield? To God ? Or to myself? 

— July 30. — I met Dr. Cabot to-day, and 
could not help asking the question : 

“Is it right for me to sing and play in com- 
pany when all I do it for is to be admired ? ’ ’ 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


77 


“Are you sure it is all you do it for?” he 
returned. 

“Oh,” I said, “I suppose there may be a 
sprinkling of desire to entertain and please, 
mixed with the love of display.” 

“Do you suppose that your love of display, 
allowing you have it, would be forever slain by 
your merely refusing to sing in company ? ” 

‘ ‘ I thought that might give it a pretty hard 
blow,” I said, “ if not its death blow.” 

“ Meanwhile in punishing yourself you punish 
your poor innocent friends,” he said, laughing. 
“ No, child, go on singing ; God has given you 
this power of entertaining and gratifying your 
friends. But pray, without ceasing, that you 
may sing from pure benevolence and not from 
pure self-love.” 

‘ ‘ Why, do people pray about such things as 
that ? ” I cried. 

“Of course they do. Why, I would pray 
about my little finger, if my little finger went 
astray.” 

I looked at his little finger, but saw no signs 
of its becoming schismatic. 

August 3. — This morning I took great 

delight in praying for my little scholars and went 
to Sunday-school as on wings. But on reaching 
my seat, what was my horror to find Maria 
Perry there ! 


78 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ O, your seat is changed,” said she. “ I am 
to have half your class, and I like this seat 
better than those higher up. I suppose you 
don’t care? ” 

“But I do care,” I returned; “and you have 
taken my very best children — the very sweetest 
and the very prettiest. I shall speak to Mr. 
Williams about it directly.” 

‘ ‘ At any rate I would not fly into such a 
fury,” she said. “It is just as pleasant to me 
to have pretty children to teach, as it is to you. 
Mr. Williams said he had no doubt you would 
be glad to divide your class with me, as it is 
so large ; and I doubt if you gain anything by 
speaking to him.” 

There was no time for further discussion, as 
school was about to begin. I went to my new 
seat with great disgust, and found it very incon- 
venient. The children could not cluster around 
me as they did before, and I got on with the 
lesson very badly. I am sure Maria Perry has 
no gift at teaching little children and I feel 
quite vexed and disappointed. This has not 
been a profitable Sunday, and I am now going 
to bed, cheerless and uneasy. 

Aug. 9. — Mr. Williams called this even- 
ing to say that I am to have my old seat and all 
the children again. All the mothers had been 
to see him, or had written him notes about it, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


79 


and requested that I might continue to teach 
them. Mr. Williams said he hoped I would go 
on teaching for twenty years, and that as fast as 
his little girls grew old enough to come to Sun- 
day-school he should want me to take charge of 
them. I should have been greatly elated by 
these compliments, but for the display I made of 
myself to Maria Perry on Sunday. Oh, that I 
could learn to bridle my unlucky tongue ! 

Jan. 15, 1835. — To-day I am twenty. 

That sounds very old, yet I feel pretty much as 
I did before. I have begun to visit some of 
mother’s poor folks with her, and am astonished 
to see how they love her, and how plainly they 
let her talk to them. As a general rule I do 
not think poor people are very interesting, and 
they are always ungrateful. 

We went first to see old Jacob Stone. I have 
been there a good many times with the baskets 
of nice things mother takes such comfort in 
sending him, but never would go in. I was 
shocked to see how worn away he was. He 
seemed in great distress of mind, and begged 
mother to pray with him. I do not see how she 
could. I am perfectly sure that 110 earthly 
power could ever induce me to go round praying 
on bare floors, with people sitting, rocking and 
staring all the time as the two Stone girls stared 
at mother. How tenderly she prayed for him ! 


8o 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 


We then went to see Susan Green. She had 
made a carpet for her room by sewing together 
little bits of pieces given her, I suppose, by per- 
sons for whom she works, for she goes about 
fitting and making carpets. It looked bright and 
cheerful. She had a nice bed in the corner, 
covered with a white quilt, and some little orna- 
ments were arranged about the room. Mother 
complimented her on her neatness, and said a 
queen might sleep in such a bed as that, and 
hoped she found it as comfortable as it looked. 

“Mercy on us!” she cried out, “it ain’t to 
sleep in ! I sleep up in the loft, that I climb to 
by a ladder every night.” 

Mother looked a little amused, and then she 
sat down and listened, patiently, to a long 
account of how the poor old thing had invested 
her money ; how Mr. Jones did not pay the 
interest regularly, and how Mr. Stevens haggled 
about the percentage. After we came away, I 
asked mother how she could listen to such a 
rigmarole in patience, and what good she sup- 
posed she had done by her visit. 

“ Why, the poor creature likes to show off her 
bright carpet and nice bed, her chairs, her vases 
and her knick-knacks, and she likes to talk 
about her beloved money, and her bank stock. 
I may not have done her any good, but I have 
given her a pleasure and .so have you.” 

“ Why, I hardly spoke a word.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


81 


“Yes, but your mere presence gratified her. 
And if she ever gets into trouble, she will feel 
kindly towards us for the sake of our sympathy 
with her pleasures and will let us sympathize 
with her sorrows.” 

I confess this did not seem a privilege to be 
coveted. She is not nice at all, and takes 
snuff. 

We went next to see Bridget Shannon. 
Mother had lost sight of her for some years, 
and had just heard she was sick and in great 
want. We found her in bed ; there was no 
furniture in the room and three little half-naked 
children sat with their bare feet in some ashes 
where there had been a little fire. Three such 
disconsolate faces I never saw. Mother sent me 
to the nearest baker’s for bread ; I nearly ran all 
the way, and I hardly know which I enjoyed 
most, mother’s eagerness in distributing, or the 
children’s in clutching at and devouring it. I 
am going to cut up one or two old dresses to 
make the poor things something to cover them. 
One of them has lovely hair that would curl 
beautifully if it were only brushed out. I told 
her to come to see me to-morrow, she is so very 
pretty. 

Those few visits used up the very time I 
usually spend in drawing. But on the whole I 
am glad I went with mother, because it has 
gratified her. Besides, one must either stop 


82 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


reading the Bible altogether, or else leave off 
spending one’s whole time in just doing easy 
pleasant things one likes to do. 

Jan. 20. — The little Shannon girl came, 

and I washed her face and hands, brushed out 
her hair and made it curl in lovely golden ring- 
lets all round her sweet face, and carried her, in 
great triumph to mother. 

“Took at the dear little thing, mother,’’ I 
cried; “doesn’t she look like a line of poetry.’’ 

“You foolish, romantic child ! ’’ quoth mother. 
“ She looks, to me, like a very ordinary line of 
prose. A slice of bread and butter and a piece 
of gingerbread mean more to her than these 
elaborate ringlets possibly can. They get in her 
eyes, and make her neck cold ; see, they are 
dripping with water and the child is all in a 
shiver. ’ ’ 

So saying, mother folded a towel round its 
neck, to catch the falling drops, and went for 
bread and butter, of which the child consumed 
a quantity that was absolutely appalling. To 
crown all, the ungrateful little thing would not 
so much as look at me from that moment, but 
clung to mother, turning its back upon me in 
supreme contempt. 

Moral. — Mothers occasionally know more than 
their daughters do. 


CHAPTER VI. 


January 24. 

A message came yesterday morning from 
Susan Green to the effect that she had had a 
dreadful fall, and was half killed. Mother 
wanted to set off at once to see her, but I would 
not let her go, as she has one of her worst colds. 
She then asked me to go in her place. I turned 
up my nose at the bare thought, though I dare 
say it turns up enough on its own account. 

“Oh, mother!’’ I said, reproachfully, “that 
dirty old woman !” 

Mother made no answer, and I sat down at 
the piano, and played a little. But I only played 
discords. 

‘ ‘ Do you think it is my duty to run after such 
horrid old women?’’ I asked mother, at last. 

“I think, dear, you must make your own 
duties,’’ she said kindly. “ I dare say that at 
your age I should have made a great deal out of 
my personal repugnance to such a woman as 
Susan, and very little out of her sufferings.’’ 

I believe I am the most fastidious creature in 
the world. Sick-rooms with their intolerable 

smells of camphor, and vinegar and mustard, 

(83) 


8 4 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


their gloom and their whines and their groans, 
actually make me shudder. But was it not just 
such fastidiousness that made Cha — no, I won’t 
utter his name — that made somebody weary of 
my possibilities ? And has that terrible lesson 
really done me no good ? 

• Jan. 26. — No sooner had I written the 

above than I scrambled into my cloak and bon- 
net, and flew, on the wings of holy indignation, 
to Susan Green. Such wings fly fast, and got 
me a little out of breath. I found her lying on 
that nice white bed of hers, in a frilled cap and 
night-gown. It seems she fell from her ladder 
in climbing to the dismal den where she sleeps, 
and lay all night in great distress with some 
serious internal injury. I found her groaning 
and complaining in a fearful way. 

“Are you in such pain?” I asked, as kindly 
as I could. 

“ It isn’t the pain,” she said, “ it isn’t the pain. 
It’s the way my nice bed is going to wreck and 
ruin, and the starch all getting out of my frills that 
I fluted with my own hands. And the doctor’s 
bill, and the medicines, 0I1, dear, dear, dear !” 

Just then the doctor came in. After exam- 
ining her, he said to a woman who seemed to 
have charge of her, “ Are you the nurse?” 

“Oh, no, I only stepped in to see what I 
could do for her.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


85 


“ Who is to be with her to-night, then ?” 

Nobody knew. 

“ I will send a nurse, then,” he said. “ But 
some one else will be needed also,” he added, 
looking at me. 

“ I will stay,” I said. But my heart died 
within me. 

The doctor took me aside. 

“ Her injuries are very serious,” he said. “If 
she has any friends they ought to be sent for.” 

“You don’t mean that she is going to die?” 
I asked. 

“ I fear she is. But not immediately.” 

He took leave, and I went back to the bed- 
side. I saw there no longer a snuffy, repulsive 
old woman, but a human being about to make 
that mysterious journey to a far country whence 
there is no return. Oh, how I wished mother 
was there ! 

“Susan,” I said, “have you any relatives?” 

“No, I haven’t,” she answered sharply. 
“ And if I had they needn’t come prowling 
around me. I don’t want no relations about my 
body.” 

“ Would you like to see Dr. Cabot?” 

“ What should I want of Dr. Cabot? Don’t 
tease, child.” 

Considering the deference with which she had 
heretofore treated me, this was quite a new 
order of things. 


86 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


I sat down, and tried to pray for her, silently, 
in my heart. Who was to go with her on that 
long journey, and where was it to end ? 

The woman who had been caring for her now 
went away, and it was growing dark. I sat still, 
listening to my own heart, which beat till it half 
choked me. 

‘ ‘ What were you and the doctor whispering 
about?” she suddenly burst out. 

“ He asked me, for one thing, if you had any 
friends that could be sent for ?” 

“ I’ve been my own best friend,” she returned. 
“Who’d have raked and scraped and hoarded 
and counted for Susan Green if I hadn’t ha’ 
done it? I’ve got enough to make me comfort- 
able as long as I live, and when I lie on my 
dying bed.” 

“•But you can’t carry it with you,” I said. 
This highly original remark was all I had cour- 
age to utter. 

“ I wish I could,” she cried. “ I suppose you 
think I talk awful. They say you are getting 
most to be as much of a saint as your ma. It’s 
born in some, and in some it ain’t. Do get a 
light. It’s lonesome here in the dark, and cold. ’ ’ 

I was thankful enough to enliven the dark 
room with light and fire. But I saw now that 
the thin, yellow, hard face had changed, sadly. 
She fixed her two little black eyes on me, evi- 
dently startled by the expression of my face. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 87 

“Look here, child, I ain’t hurt to speak of, 
am I?” 

“ The doctor says you are hurt seriously.” 

My tone must have said more than my words 
did, for she caught me by the wrist, and held 
me fast. 

“ He didn’t say nothing about my — about it’s 
being dangerous? I ain’t dangerous, am I?” 

I felt ready to sink. 

“Oh, Susan!” I gasped out; “you haven’t 
any time to lose. You’re going, you’re going !” 
“Going!” she cried; “Going where? You 
don’t mean to say I’m a dying? Why, it beats 
all my calculations. I was going to live ever so 
many years, and save up ever so much money, 
and then,- when my time come, I was going to 
put on my best fluted night-gown and night-cap, 
and lay my head on my handsome pillow, and 
draw the clothes up over me, neat and tidy, and 
die decent. But here’s my bed all in a toss, and 
my frills all in a crumple, and my room all up- 
side down, and bottles of medicine setting around 
along side of my vases, and nobody here but 
you, just a girl, and nothing else !” 

All this came out by jerks, as it were, and at 
intervals. 

“ Don’t talk so ! ” I fairly screamed. “ Pray, 
pray to God to have mercy on you ! ” 

She looked at me, bewildered, but yet as if 
the truth had reached her at last. 


88 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“Pray, yourself!” she said, eagerly. “I 
don’t know how. I can’t think. Oh, my time’s 
come ! my time’s come ! And I ain’t ready ! I 
ain’t ready ! Get down on your knees, and pray 
with all your might and main.” 

And I did ; she holding my wrist tightly in 
her hard hand. All at once I felt her hold relax. 
After that the next thing I knew I w 7 as lying on 
the floor, and somebody was dashing water in 
my face. 

It was the nurse. She had come at last, and 
found me by the side of the bed, where I had 
fallen, and had been trying to revive me ever 
since. I started up and looked about me. The 
nurse w r as closing Susan’s eyes in a professional 
way, and performing other little services of the 
sort. The room wore an air of perfect desolation. 
The clothes Susan had on when she fell lay in a 
forlorn heap on a chair ; her shoes and stockings 
were thrown hither and thither ; the mahogany 
bureau, in which she had taken so much pride, 
was covered with vials, to make room for which 
some pretty trifles had been hastily thrust aside. 
I remembered w r hat I had once said to Mrs. 
Cabot, about having tasteful things about me, 
with a sort of shudder. What a mockery they 
are in the awful presence of death. 

Mother met me with open arms when I reached 
home. She was much shocked at what I had to 
tell, and at my having encountered such a scene 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


89 


alone. I should have felt myself quite a heroine 
under her caresses, if I had not been overcome 
with bitter regret that I had not, with firmness 
and dignity, turned poor Susan’s last thoughts 
to her Saviour. Oh, how could I, through mis- 
erable cowardice, let those precious moments 
slip by ! 

Jan. 27. — I have learned one thing, by 

yesterday’s experience that is worth knowing. 
It is this ; duty looks more repelling at a dis- 
tance than when fairly faced and met. Of course 
I have read the lines : 

Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face ; 

but I seem to be one of the stupid sort, who 
never apprehend a thing till they experience it. 
Now, however, I have seen the smile, and find 
it so “ fair, ’ ’ that I shall gladly plod through 
many a hardship and trial to meet it again. 

Poor Susan ! Perhaps God heard my eager 
prayer for her soul, and revealed Himself to her 
at the very last moment. 

March 2. — Such a strange thing has 

happened ! Susan Green left a will, bequeath- 
ing her precious savings to whoever offered the 
last prayer in her hearing ! I do not want, I 
never could touch a penny of that hard-earned 


90 


STEPPING HE A VENIVARD. 


store ; and if I did, no earthly motive would 
tempt me to tell a human being, that it was 
offered by me, an inexperienced, trembling girl, 
driven to it by mere desperation ! So it has 
gone to Dr. Cabot, who will not use it for him- 
self, I am sure, but will be delighted to have it 
to give to poor people, who really besiege him. 
The last time he called to see her he talked and 
prayed with her, and says she seemed pleased 
and grateful, and promised to be more regular 
at church, which she had been, ever since. 

March 28. — I feel all out of sorts. 

Mother says it is owing to the strain I went 
through at Susan’s dying bed. She wants me 
to go to visit my aunt Mary, who is always 
urging me to come. But I do not like to leave 
my little Sunday-scholars, nor to give mother 
the occasion to deny herself in order to meet the 
expense of such a long journey. Besides, I 
should have to have some new dresses, a new 
bonnet, and lots of things. 

To-day Dr. Cabot has sent me some directions 
for which I have been begging him a long time. 
L,est I should wear out this precious letter by 
reading it over, I will copy it here. After 
alluding to my complaint that I still “ saw men 
as trees walking,” he says : 

“Yet he who first uttered this complaint had 
had his eyes opened by the Son of God, and so 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


91 


have you. Now He never leaves His work 
incomplete, and He will gradually lead you into 
clear and open vision, if you will allow Him to 
do it. I say gradually , because I believe this to 
be His usual method, while I do not deny that 
there are cases where light suddenly bursts in 
like a flood. To return to the blind man. When 
Jesus found that his cure was not complete, He 
put His hands again upon his eyes, and made 
him look up ; and he was restored, and saw 
every man clearly. Now this must be done for 
you ; and in order to have it done you must go 
to Christ Himself, not to one of His servants. 
Make your complaint, tell Him how obscure 
everything still looks to you, and beg Him to 
complete your cure. He may see fit to try your 
faith and patience by delaying this completion ; 
but meanwhile you are safe in His presence, and 
while led by His hand, He will excuse the mis- 
takes you make, and pity your falls. But you 
will imagine that it is best that He should at 
once enable you to see clearly. If it is, you may 
be sure He will do it. He never makes mistakes. 
But He often deals far differently with His disci- 
ples. He lets them grope their way in the dark 
until they fully learn how blind they are, how 
helpless, how absolutely in need of Him. 

‘ ‘ What His methods will be with you I cannot 
foretell. But you. may be sure that He never 
works in an arbitrary way. He has a reason for 


92 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


everything He does. You may not understand 
why He leads you now in this way and now in 
that, but you may, nay, you must believe that 
perfection is stamped on His every act. 

‘ ‘ I am afraid that you are in danger of falling 
into an error only too common among young 
Christians. You acknowledge that there has 
been enmity towards God in your secret soul, 
and that one of the first steps towards peace is 
to become reconciled to Him and to have your 
sins forgiven for Christ’s sake. This done, 3^011 
settle down w 7 ith the feeling that the great work 
of life is done, and that your salvation is sure. 
Or, if not sure, that your w r hole business is to 
study your own case to see whether 3^011 are 
really in a state of grace. Many persons never 
get be3^ond this point. They spend their whole 
time in asking the question : 

“ ‘ Do I love the Lord or no? 

Am I His or am I not ? ’ 

“ I beg you, my dear child, if you are doing 
this aimless, useless work, to stop short at 
once, kife is too precious to spend in a tread- 
mill. Having been pardoned by your God and 
Saviour, the next thing you have to do is to 
show 3X)ur gratitude for this infinite favor by 
consecrating 3^ourself entirely to Him, body, 
soul and spirit. This is the least you can do. 
He has bought you with a price, and you are no 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


93 


longer your own. ‘But,’ you may reply, ‘this 
is contrary to my nature. I love my own way. 
I desire ease and pleasure ; I desire to go to 
heaven, but I want to be carried thither on a bed 
of flow r ers. Can I not give myself so far to God 
as to feel a sweet sense of peace with Him, and 
be sure of final salvation, and yet, to a certain 
extent, indulge and gratify myself? If I give 
myself entirely away to Him, and lose all owner- 
ship of myself, He may deny me many things I 
greatly desire. He may make my life hard 
and wearisome, depriving me of all that now 
makes it agreeable.’ But, I reply, this is no 
matter of parley and discussion ; it is not 
optional with God’s children whether they will 
pay Him a part of the price they owe Him and 
keep back the rest. He asks, and He has a 
right to ask, for all you have and all you are. 
And. if you shrink from what is involved in 
such a surrender, you should fly to Him at once 
and never rest till He has conquered this secret 
disinclination to give to Him as freely and as 
fully as He has given to you. It is true that 
such an act of consecration on your part may 
involve no little future discipline and correction. 
As soon as you become the Lord’s by your own 
deliberate and conscious act, He will begin that 
process of sanctification which is to make you 
holy as He is holy, perfect as He is perfect. He 
becomes at once your Physician as well as your 


94 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


dearest and best Friend, and He will use no 
painful remedy that can be avoided. Remember 
that it is His will that you should be sanctified, 
and that the work of making you holy is His, 
not yours. At the same time you are not to sit 
with folded hands, waiting for this blessing. 
You are to avoid laying hindrances in His way, 
and 3*011 are to exercise faith in Him as just as 
able and just as willing to give sanctification as 
He was to give you redemption. And now if 
you ask how you may know that you have truly 
consecrated yourself to Him, I reply, observe 
every indication of His wall concerning you, no 
matter how trivial, and see whether you at once 
close in with that will. Lay dowm this principle 
as a law — God does nothing arbitral If He 
takes away you health, for instance, it is because 
He has some reason for doing so ; and this is 
true of everything you value ; and if 3*011 have 
real faith in Him 3*011 will not insist on knowing 
this reason. If 3*011 find, in the course of daily 
events, that your self-consecration was not per- 
fect — that is, that 3*our will revolts at His will — 
do not be discouraged, but fly to 3*our Saviour 
and stay in His presence till 3*ou obtain the 
spirit in which He cried in His hour of anguish, 

‘ Father, if Thou be walling, remove this cup 
from me : nevertheless, not my will but Thine 
be done.’ Every time you do this it will be 
easier to do it ; every such consent to suffer will 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


95 


bring you nearer and nearer to Him ; and in this 
nearness to Him you will find such peace, such 
blessed, sweet peace, as will make your life 
infinitely happy, no matter what may be its mere 
outside conditions. Just think, my dear Katy, 
of the honor and the joy of having your will one 
with the Divine will, and so becoming changed 
into Christ’s image from glory to glory ! 

“But I cannot say, in a letter, the tithe of 
what I want to say. Listen to my sermons from 
w 7 eek to week, and glean from them all the 
instruction you can, remembering that they are 
preached to you. 

“ In reading the Bible, I advise you to choose 
detached passages, or even one verse a day, 
rather than whole chapters. Study every word, 
ponder and pray over it till you have got out of 
it all the truth it contains. 

‘ ‘ As to the other devotional reading, it is 
better to settle down on a few favorite authors, 
and read their w T orks over and over and over 
until you have digested their thoughts and made 
them your own. 

“ It has been said ‘ that a fixed, inflexible will 
is a great assistance in a holy life.’ 

“You can will to choose for your associates 
those who are most devout and holy. 

“ You can will to read books that will stimulate 
you in your Christian life, rather than those 
that merely amuse. 


96 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“You can will to use every means of grace 
appointed by God. 

“ You can w 7 ill to spend much time in prayer, 
without regard to your frame at the moment. 

“ You can will to prefer a religion of principle 
to one of mere feeling ; in other words, to obey 
the will of God when no comfortable glow of 
emotion accompanies your obedience. 

“You cannot will to possess the spirit of 
Christ ; that must come as His gift, but you can 
choose to study His life, and to imitate it. This 
will infallibly lead to such self-denying work as 
visiting the poor, nursing the sick, giving of 
your time and money to the needy, and the like. 

“ If the thought of such self-denial is repug- 
nant to you, remember that it is enough for the 
disciple to be as his Lord. And let me assure 
you that as you penetrate the labyrinth of life in 
pursuit of Christian duty, you will often be sur- 
prised and charmed by meeting your Master 
Himself amid its windings and turnings, and 
receive His soul-inspiring smile. Or, I should 
rather say, you will always meet Him wherever 
you go.” 

I have read this letter again and again. It 
has taken such hold of me that I can think of 
nothing else. The idea of seeking holiness had 
never so much as crossed my mind. And even 
now it seems like presumption for such a one as 
I to utter so sacred a word. And I shrink from 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


97 


committing myself to such a pursuit, lest after a 
time I should fall back into the old routine. 
And I have an undefined, wicked dread of being 
singular, as well as a certain terror of self-denial 
and loss of all liberty. But no choice seems 
left to me. Now that my duty has been clearly 
pointed out to me, I do not stand where I did 
before. And I feel, mingled with my indolence 
and love of ease and pleasure, some drawings 
towards a higher and better life. There is one 
thing I can do, and that is to pray that Jesus 
would do for me what He did for the blind man 
— put His hands yet again upon my eyes and 
make me to see clearly. And I will. 

March 30. — Yes, I have prayed, and He 

has heard me. I see that I have no right to live 
for myself, and that I must live for Him. I 
have given myself to Him as I never did before, 
and have entered, as it were, a new world. I 
was very happy when I first began to believe in 
His love for me and that He had redeemed me. 
But this new happiness is deeper ; it involves 
something higher than getting to heaven at last, 
which has, hitherto, been my great aim. 

March 31. — The more I pray, and the 

more I read the Bible, the more I feel my ignor- 
ance. And the more earnestly I desire holiness, 
the more utterly unholy I see myself to be. But 


9 8 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


I have pledged myself to the Lord, and I must 
pay my vows, cost what it may. 

I have begun to read Taylor’s Holy Living 
and Dying. A month ago I should have found 
it a tedious, dry book. But I am reading it 
w r ith a sort of avidity, like one seeking after hid 
treasure. Mother, observing what I was doing, 
advised me not to read it straight through, but 
to mingle a passage now and then with chapters 
from other books. She suggested my beginning 
on Baxter’s Saints’ Rest, and of that I have 
read every word. I shall read it over, as Dr. 
Cabot advised, till I have fully caught its spirit. 
Even this one reading has taken away my 
lingering fear of death, and made heaven won- 
derfully attractive. I never mean to read worldly 
books again, and my music and drawing I have 
given up forever. 




CHAPTER VII. 


April i. 

Mother asked me last evening to sing and 
play to her. I was embarrassed to know how 
to excuse myself without telling her my real 
reason for declining. But somehow she got it 
out of me. 

“One need not be fanatical in order to be 
religious,” she said. 

“Is it fanatical to give up all for God ? ” I 
asked. 

“What is it to give up all?” she asked, in 
ply, 

“Why, to deny one’s self every gratification 
and indulgence in order to mortify one’s natural 
inclinations, and to live entirely for Him.” 

“ God is then a hard Master, who allows His 
children no liberty,” she replied. “ Now let us 
see where this theory will lead you. In the first 
place you must shut your eyes to all the beauti- 
ful things He has made. You must shut your 
ears to all the harmonies He has ordained. You 
must shut your heart against all sweet, human 
affections. You have a body, it is true, and it 
may revolt at such bondage ” — 


(99) 


IOO 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“We are told to keep under the body,” I 
interrupted. “Oh, mother, don’t hinder me! 
You know that my love for music is a passzozi, 
and that it is my snare and temptation. And 
how can I spend my whole time in reading the 
Bible, and praying, if I go on with my drawing? 
It may do for other people to serve God and 
Mammon, but not for me. I must belong wholly 
to the world or wholly to Christ.” 

Mother said no more, and I went on with my 
reading. But somehow my book seemed to have 
lost its flavor. Besides, it was time to retire, for 
my evening devotions, which I never put off 
now till the last thing at night, as I used to do. 
When I came down, mother was lying on the 
sofa, by which I knew she w 7 as not well. I felt 
troubled that I had refused to sing to her. 
Think of the money she has spent on that part 
of my education ! I went to her and kissed her 
with a pang of terror. What if she were going 
to be very sick, and to die ? 

“It is nothing, darling,” she said, “nothing 
at all. I am tired, and felt a little faint.” 

I looked at her anxiously, and the bare thought 
that she might die and leave me alone was so 
terrible that I could hardly help crying out. And 
I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that if God 
took her from me, I could not, should not say ; 
Thy will be done. 

But she was better after taking a few drops of 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


IOI 


lavender, and wliat color she has came back to 
her dear, sweet face. 

April 12. — Dr. Cabot’s letter has lost all 

its power over me. A stone has more feeling 
than I. I don’t love to pray. I am sick and 
tired of this dreadful struggle after holiness ; 
good books are all alike, flat and meaningless. 
But I must have something to absorb and carry 
me away, and I have come back to my music 
and my drawing with new zest. Mother was 
right in warning me against giving them up. 
Maria Kelley is teaching me to paint in oil- 
colors, and says I have a natural gift for it. 

April 13. — Mother asked me to go to 

church with her last evening, and I said I did 
not want to go. She looked surprised and 
troubled. 

“ Are you not well, dear?” she asked. 

“ I don’t know. Yes. I suppose I am. But 
I could not be still at church five minutes. I 
am so nervous that I feel as if I should fly.” 

“I see how it is,” she said, “you have for- 
gotten that body of yours, of which I reminded 
you, and have been trying to live as if you were 
all soul and spirit. You have been straining 
every nerve to acquire perfection, whereas this 
is God’s gift, and one that He is willing to give 
you, fully and freely.” 


102 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“I have done seeking for that or anything 
else that is good,” I said, despondently. “And 
so I have gone back to my music and everything 
else.” 

“ Here is just the rock upon which you split,” 
she returned. “You speak of going back to your 
music as if that implied going away from God. 
You rush from one extreme to another. The 
only true way to live in this world, constituted 
just as we are, is to make all our employments 
subserve the one great end and aim of existence, 
namely, to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. 
But in order to do this, we must be wise task- 
masters, and not require of ourselves what we 
can not possibly perform. Recreation we must 
have. Otherwise, the strings of our soul, wound 
up to an unnatural tension, will break.” 

“Oh, I do wish,” I cried, “that God had 
given us plain rules, about which we could make 
no mistake ! ’ ’ 

“I think His rules are plain,” she replied. 

‘ ‘ And some liberty of action He must leave us, 
or we should become mere machines. I think 
that those who love Him, and wait upon Him 
day by day, learn His will almost imperceptibly, 
and need not go astray.” 

“But, mother, music and drawing are sharp- 
edged tools in such hands as mine. I cannot be 
moderate in my use of them. And the more I 
delight in them, the less I delight in God.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


103 


“Yes, this is human nature. But God’s 
divine nature will supplant it, if we only consent 
to let Him w r ork in us of His own good pleasure. ’ * 

New York, April 16. — After all, mother has 
come off conqueror, and here I am at aunty’s. 
After our quiet, plain little home, in our quiet 
little town, this seems like a new world. The 
house is large, but it is as full as it can hold. 
Aunty has six children of her own, and has 
adopted two. She says she always meant to 
imitate the old woman who lived in a shoe. 
She reminds me of mother, and yet she is very 
different ; full of fun and energy ; flying about 
the house as on wings, with a kind, bright word 
for everybody. All her household affairs go on 
like clock-work ; the children are always nicely 
dressed ; nobody ever seems out of humor ; 
nobody is ever sick. Aunty is the central object 
round which every body revolves; you can’t 
forget her a moment, for she is always doing 
something for you, and then her unflagging good 
humor and cheerfulness keep you good-humored 
and cheerful. I don’t wonder Uncle Alfred 
loves her so ! 

I hope I shall have just such a home. I mean 
this is the sort of home I should like if I ever 
married, which I never mean to do. I should like 
to be just such a bright, loving wife as aunty 
is ; to have my husband lean on me as uncle 


104 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN W A RD. 


leans on her ; to have just as many children, 
and to train them as wisely and kindly as she 
does hers. Then, indeed, I should feel that I 
had not been born in vain, but had a high and 
sacred mission on earth. But as it is, I must 
just pick up what scraps of usefulness I can, and 
let the rest go. 


: April 18. — Aunty says I sit writing and 

reading and thinking too much, and wants me 

to go out more. I tell her I don’t feel strong 

enough to go out much. She says that is all 

nonsense, and drags me out. I get tired, and 

hungry, and sleep like a baby a month old. I 

see now mother’s wisdom and kindness in making 

me leave home when I did. I had veered about 

from point to point till I was nearly ill. Now 

aunty keeps me well by making me go out, and 

dear Dr. Cabot’s precious letter can work a true 

and not a morbid work in my soul. I am very 

happy. I have delightful talks with aunty, who 

sets me right at this point and at that ; and it is 

beautiful to watch her home-life and to see w r ith 

what sweet unconsciousness she carries her 

religion into every detail. I am sure it must do 

me good to be here ; and yet, if I am growing 

better, how slowly, how slowly, it is ! Somebody 

» 

has said that ‘ ‘ our course heavenward is like the 
plan of the zealous pilgrims of old, who for every 
three steps forward, took one backward.” 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


105 


April 30. — Aunty’s baby, my dear 

father’s namesake, and hitherto the merriest 
little fellow I ever saw, was taken sick last 
night, very suddenly. She sent for the doctor 
at once, who would not say positively what 
was the matter, but this morning pronounced 
it scarlet fever. The three youngest have all 
come down with it to-day. If they were my 
children, I should be in a perfect worry and 
flurry. Indeed, I am as it is. But aunty is 
as bright and cheerful as ever. She flies from 
one to another, and keeps up their spirits with 
her own gayety. I am mortified to find that 
at such a time as this I can think of myself, and 
that I find it irksome to be shut up in sick- 
rooms, instead of walking, driving, visiting, 
and the like. But, as Dr. Cabot says, I can 
now choose to imitate my Master, who spent His 
whole life in doing good, and I do hope, too, to 
be of some little use to aunty, after her kind- 
ness to me. 

— — May 1. — The doctor says the children 
are doing as well as could be expected. He 
made a short visit this morning, as it is Sunday. 
If I had ever seen him before I should say I had 
some unpleasant association with him. I won- 
der aunty employs such a great clumsy man. 
But she says he is very good, and very skillful. 
I wish I did not take such violent likes and dis- 


io6 STEPPING HEAVENWARD 

likes to people. I want my religion to change 
me in every respect. 

May 2. — Oh, I know now ! This is the 

very man who was so rude at Sunday-school, 
and afterwards made such a nice address to the 
children. Well he may know how to speak in 
public, but I am sure he doesn’t in private. I 
never knew such a shut-up man. 

May 4. — I have my hands as full as they 

can hold. The children have got so fond of me, 
and one or the other is in my lap nearly all the 
time. I sing to them, tell them stories, build 
block-houses, and relieve aunty all I can. Dull 
and poky as the doctor is, I am not afraid of 
him, for he never notices anything I say or do, 
so while he is holding solemn consultations with 
aunty in one corner, I can sing and talk all sorts 
of nonsense to my little pets in mine. What 
fearful black eyes he has, and what masses of 
black hair ! 

This busy life quite suits me, now I have got 
used to it. And it sweetens every bit of work 
to think that I am doing it in humble, far-off, 
yet real imitation of Jesus. I am indeed really 
and truly happy. 


May 14. — It is now two weeks since 

little Raymond was taken sick, and I have just 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


107 


lived in the nursery all the time, though aunty 
has tried to make me go out. Little Emma was 
taken down to-day, though she has been kept 
on the third floor all the time. I feel dreadfully 
myself. But this hard, cold doctor of aunty’s 
is so taken up with the children that he never 
so much as looks at me. I have been in a per- 
fect shiver all day, but these merciless little folks 
call for stories as eagerly as ever. Well, let me 
be a comfort to them if I can ! I hate selfish- 
ness more and more, and am shocked to see how 
selfish I have been. 

May 15. — I was in a burning fever all 

night, and my head ached, and my throat w T as 
and is very sore. If I knew I was going to die 
I would burn up this journal first. I would not 
have any one see it for the world. 

May 24. — Dr. Elliott asked me on Sun- 
day morning a week ago, if I still felt well. 
For answer I behaved like a goose, and burst 
out crying. Aunty looked more anxious than I 
have seen her look yet, and reproached herself 
for having allowed me to be with the children. 
She took me by one elbow, and the doctor by 
the other, and they marched me off to my own 
room, where I was put through the usual routine 
on such occasions, and then ordered to bed. 
I fell asleep immediately and slept all day. The 


io8 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


doctor came to see me in the evening, and made 
me a short, stiff little visit, gave me a powder, 
and said he thought I should soon be better. 

I had two such visits from him the next day, 
when I began to feel quite like myself again, and 
in spite of his grave, staid deportment, could not 
help letting my good spirits run away with me 
in a style that evidently shocked him. He says 
persons nursing in scarlet fever often have such 
little attacks as mine ; indeed every one of the 
servants has had a touch of sore throat and 
headache. 

May 25. — This morning, just as the 

doctor shuffled in on his big feet, it came over 
me how ridiculously I must have looked the day 
I was taken sick, being walked off between 
aunty and himself, crying like a baby. I burst 
out laughing, and no consideration I could make 
to myself would stop me. I pinched myself, 
asked myself how I should feel if one of the 
children should die, and used other kindred 
devices all to no purpose. At last the doctor, 
gravity personified as he is, joined in, though 
not knowing in the least what he was laughing 
at. Then he said, “After this, I suppose, I 
shall have to pronounce you convalescent.” 

“Oh, no!” I cried. “Iam very sick, in- 
deed.” 

“ This looks like it, to be sure ! ” said aunty. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


109 


“I suppose this will be your last visit, Dr. 
Elliott,” I went on, “and I am glad of it. 
After the way I behaved the day I was taken 
sick, I have been ashamed to look you in the 
face. But I really felt dreadfully.” 

He made no answer whatever. I don’t sup- 
pose he would speak a little flattering word by 
way of putting one in good humor with one’s 
self, for the whole world ! 

June i. — We are all as well as ever, but 

the doctor keeps some of the children still con- 
fined to the house for fear of bad consequences 
following the fever. He visits them twice a day 
for the same reason, or at least under that pre- 
tense, but I really believe he comes because he 
has got the habit of coming, and because he ad- 
mires aunty so much. She has a real affection 
for him, and is continually asking me if I don’t 
like this and that quality in him which I can’t 
see at all. We begin to drive out again. The 
weather is very warm, but I feel perfectly well. 

June 2. — After the children’s dinner to- 
day I took care of them while their nurse got 
hers and aunty went to lie down, as she is all 
tired out. We were all full of life and fun, and 
some of the little ones wanted me to play a play 
of their own invention, which was to lie down 
on the floor, cover my face with a handkerchief, 


I IO 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


and make believe I was dead. They were to 
gather about me, and I was suddenly to come to 
life and jump up and try to catch them as they 
all ran scampering and screaming about. We 
had played in this interesting way for some time, 
and my hair, which I keep in nice order now-a- 
days, was pulled down, and flying every way, 
when in marched the doctor. I started up and 
came to life quickly enough when I heard his 
step, looking red and angry, no doubt. 

“ I should think you might have knocked, Dr. 
Elliott,” I said, with much displeasure. 

‘ ‘ I ask your pardon ; I knocked several times, ’ ’ 
he returned. “ I need hardly ask how my little 
patients are.” 

“No,” I replied, still ruffled, and making 
desperate efforts to get my hair into some sort 
of order. “They are as well as possible.” 

“ I came a little earlier than usual to-day,” he 
went on, “ because I am called to visit my uncle, 
Dr. Cabot, who is in a very critical state of 
health.” 

“ Dr. Cabot ! ” I repeated, bursting into tears. 

“Compose yourself, I entreat,” he said; “I 
hope that I may be able to relieve him. At all 
events ” — 

“ At all events, if you let him die it will break 
my heart,” I cried, passionately. “Don’t wait 
another moment ; go this instant.” 

“ I cannot go this instant,” he replied. “ The 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


1 1 1 


boat does not leave until four o’clock. And if I 
may be allowed, as a physician, to say one word, 
that my brief acquaintance hardly justifies, I do 
wish to warn you that unless you acquire more 
self-control — ” 

“ Oh, I know that I have a quick temper, and 
that I spoke very rudely to you just now,” I 
interrupted, not a little startled by the serious- 
ness of his manner. 

‘ ‘ I did not refer to your temper, ’ ’ he said. * ‘ I 
meant your whole passionate nature. Your ve- 
hement loves and hates, your ecstacies and your 
despondencies ; your disposition to throw your- 
self headlong into whatever interests you.” 

” I would rather have too little self-control,” 
I retorted, resentfully, “ than to be as cold as a 
stone, and as hard as a rock, and as silent as the 
grave, like some people I know. ’ ’ 

His countenance fell ; he looked disappointed, 
even pained. 

“ I shall probably see your mother,” he said, 
turning to go ; ” your aunt wishes me to call on 
her ; have you any message ? ’ ’ 

“No” I said. 

Another pained, disappointed look made me 
begin to recollect myself. I was sorry, oh ! so 
sorry for my anger and rudeness. I ran after 
him, into the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding 
out both hands, which he took in both his. 

“ Don’t go until you have forgiven me for 


I 12 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 


being so angry ! ” I cried. “ Indeed, Dr. Elliott, 
though you may not be able to believe it, I am 
trying to do right all the time ! ’ ’ 

“ I do believe it,” he said, earnestly. 

“ Then tell me that you forgive me !” 

“ If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell 
something else,” he said, looking me through 
and through with those great dusky eyes. 
“And I will tell it,” he went on, his grasp on 
my hands growing firmer — “ It is easy to forgive 
when one loves.” I pulled my hands away, and 
burst out crying again. 

“Oh, Dr. Elliott, this is dreadful /” I said. 
” You do not, you cannot love me ! You are so 
much older than I am ! So grave and silent ! 
You are not in earnest ! ” 

“ I am only too much so,” he said, and went 
quietly out. 

I went back to the nursery. The children 
rushed upon me, and insisted that I should 
“ play die.” I let them pull me about as they 
pleased. I only wished I could play it in earnest. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


JUNR 28. 

Mother writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of 
danger, Dr. Elliott having thrown new light 011 
his case, and performed some sort of an opera- 
tion that relieved him at once. I am going 
home. Nothing would tempt me to encounter 
those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is 
growing warm, and aunty is getting ready to go 
out of town with the children. 

June 29. — Aunty insisted on knowing 

why I was hurrying home so suddenly, and at 
last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole 
it was a relief to have some one to speak to. 

“Well,’’ she said, and leaned back in her 
chair in a fit of musing. 

“ Is that all you are going to say, aunty?” 
I ventured to ask at last. 

“No, I have one more remark to add,” she 
said, “and it is this : I don’t know which of you 
has behaved most ridiculously. It would relieve 
me to give you each a good shaking. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I think Dr.. Elliott has behaved ridiculously, ’ ’ 

I said, “ and he has made me most unhappy.” 

(113) 


H4 5 TEPPING HE A VEN W A PD. 

“Unhappy!” she repeated. “I don’t won- 
der you are unhappy. You have pained and 
wounded one of the noblest men that walks the 
earth.” 

“It is not my fault. I never tried to make 
him like me.” 

“ Yes you did. You were perfectly bewitch- 
ing whenever he came here. No mortal man 
could help being fascinated.” 

I knew this was not true, and bitterly resented 
aunt} 7 ’s injustice. 

“If I wanted to ‘fascinate’ or ‘bewitch’ a 
man,” I cried, “ I should not choose one old 
enough to be my father, nor one who was as 
uninteresting, awkward and stiff as Dr. Elliott. 
Besides, how should I know he was not married ? 
If I thought anything about it at all, I certainly 
thought of him as a middle-aged man, settled 
down with a wife, long ago.” 

“In the first place he is not old, or even 
middle-aged. He is not more than twenty-seven 
or eight. As to his being uninteresting, perhaps 
he is to you, who don't know him. And if he 
were a married man, what business had he to 
come here to see you as he has done ? ’ ’ 

t 

‘ ‘ I did not know he came to see me ; he never 
spoke to me. And I always said I would never 
marry a doctor. ” 

“We all say scores of things we live to re- 
pent,” she replied. “ But I must own that the 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 115 

doctor acted quite out of character when he 
expected you to take a fancy to him on such 
short notice, you romantic little thing. Of 
course knowing him as little as you do, and only 
seeing him in sick-rooms, you could not have 
done otherwise than as you did.” 

“Thank you, aunty,” I said, running and 
throwing my arms around her; “thank you 
with all my heart. And now won’t 3^011 take 
back what you said about my trying to fascinate 
him ? ’ ’ 

“ I suppose I must, you dear child,” she said. 
“ I was not half in earnest. The truth is I am 
so fond of you both that the idea of 3-our mis- 
understanding each other, annoys me extreme^. 
Why, you were made for each other. He would 
tone you down and keep you straight, and 3’ou 
would stimulate him and keep him awake.” 

“I don’t want to be toned down or kept 
•straight,” I remonstrated. “I hate prigs who 
keep their wdves in leading strings. I do not 
mean to marry any one, but if I should be left 
to such a piece of folly, it must be to one who 
will take me for better for worse, just as I am, 
and not as a wild plant for him to prune till he 
has got it into a shape to suit him. And now 
aunty promise me one thing. Never mention 
Dr. Elliott’s name to me again.” 

“I shall make no such promise,” she replied, 
laughing. “ I like him, and I like to talk about 


1 1 6 STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 

him, and the more you hate and despise him the 
more I shall love and admire him. I only wish 
my Lucy was old enough to be his wife, and that 
he could fancy her ; but he never could ! ” 

‘ ‘ On the contrary I should think that little 
model of propriety would just suit him,” I ex- 
claimed. 

“Don’t make fun of Lucy,” aunty said, 
shaking her head. “ She is a dear, good child, 
after all.” 

‘ ‘ After all ’ ’ means this, for what with my own 
observation, and what aunty has told me, Lucy’s 
portrait is easy to paint. The child is the 
daughter of a man who died from a lingering 
illness caused by an accident. She entered the 
family at a most inauspicious moment, two days 
after this accident. From the outset she com- 
prehended the situation, and took the ground 
that a character of irreproachable dignity and 
propriety became an infant coming at such a 
time. She never cried, never put improper ob- 
jects into her mouth, never bumped her head, or 
scratched herself. Once put to bed at night, you 
knew nothing more of her till such time next 
day as you found it convenient to attend to her. 
If you forgot her existence, as was not seldom 
the case under the circumstances, she vegetated 
on, unmoved. It is possible that pangs of 
hunger sometimes assailed her, and it is a fact 
that she teethed, had the measles and the 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 1 1 7 

whooping-cough. But these minute ripples on 
her infant life only showed the more clearly, 
what a waveless, placid little sea it was. She 
got her teeth in the order laid down in ‘ ‘ Dewees 
on Children her measels came out on the ap- 
pointed day like well-behaved measles as they 
were ; and retired decently and in order, as 
measles should. Her whooping-cough had a 
well-bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror 
of the field. As the child passed out of her 
babyhood, she remained still her mother’s appen- 
dage and glory ; a monument of pure white 
marble, displaying to the human race one 
instance at least, of perfect parental training. 
Those smooth, round hands were always magic- 
ally clean ; the dress immaculate and uncrum- 
pled ; the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She 
was a model child, as she had been a model 
baby. No slamming of doors, no litter of car- 
pets, no pattering of noisy feet on the stairs, no 
headless dolls, no soiled or torn books indicated 
her presence. Her dolls were subject to a 
methodical training, not unlike her own. They 
rose, they were dressed, they took the air, they 
retired for the night, with clock -like regularity. 
At the advanced age of eight, she ceased occu- 
pying herself with such trifles, and began a 
course of instructive reading. Her lessons were 
received in mute submission, like medicine ; so 
many doses, so many times a day. An agree- 


1 18 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


able interlude of needle-work was afforded, and 
Dorcas-like many were the garments that re- 
sulted for the poor. Give her the very eyes out 
your head, cut off your right hand for her if you 
choose, but don’t expect a gush of enthusiasm 
that would crumple your collar ; she would as 
soon strangle herself as run headlong to embrace 
you. If she has any passions or emotions, they 
are kept under ; but who asks for passion in 
blanc-mange, or seeks emotion in a comfortable 
apple pudding ? 

When her father had been dead a year, her 
mother married a man with a large family of 
children and a very small purse. Lucy had a 
hard time of it, especially as her step-father, a 
quick, impulsive man, took a dislike to her. 
Aunty had no difficulty in persuading them to 
give the child to her. She took her from the 
purest motives, and it does seem as if she ought 
to have more reward than she gets. She 
declares, however, that she has all the reward 
she could ask in the conviction that God accepts 
this attempt to please Him. 

Lucy is now nearly fourteen ; very large of 
her age, with a dead white skin, pale blue eyes, 
and a little light hair. To hear her talk is most 
edifying. Her babies are all “babes;” she 
never begins anything, but “ commences ” it ; 
she never cries, she ‘ ‘ weeps ; ’ ’ never gets up • 
in the morning, she “rises.” But what am I 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 119 

writing all this for? Why, to escape my own 
thoughts, which are anything but agreeable com- 
panions, and to put off answering the question 
which must be answered, “ Have I really made 
a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott ? Could I not, 
in time, have come to love a man who has so 
honored me? ” 

July 5. — Here I am again, safely at 

home, and very pleasant it seems to be with 
dear mother again. I have told her about Dr. 
E. She says very little about it one way or the 
other. 


July 10. — Mother sees that I am restless 

and out of sorts. “What is it, dear?” she 
asked, this morning. “ Has Dr. Elliott anything 
to do with the unsettled state you are in ? ” 

“Why, no, mother,” I answered. “My 
going awa}^ has broken up all my habits ; that’s 
all. Still if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care 
much, and was beginning to forget it, I dare say 
I should feel better.” 

“If you were perfectly sure that you never 
could return his affection,” she said, “ you were 
quite right in telling him so at once. But if }'ou 
had any misgivings on the subject, it would have 
been better to wait, and to ask God to direct 
you.” 

Yes, it would. But at the moment, I had no 


120 


STEPPING TIE A VENWARD. 


misgivings. In my usual headstrong style I 
settled one of the most weighty questions of my 
life, without reflection, without so much as one 
silent appeal to God, to tell me how to act. And 
now I have forever repelled, and thrown away 
a heart that truly loved me. He will go his 
way and I shall go mine. He never will know, 
what I am only just beginning to know myself, 
that I yearn after his love with unutterable 
yearning. 

But I am not going to sit down in sentimental 
despondency to weep over this irreparable past. 
No human being could forgive such folly as mine; 
but God can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness 
I fly to Him, and find, what is better than 
earthly felicity, the sweetest peace. He allowed 
me to bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, 
a shadow out of which I shall not soon pass, but 
He pities and He forgives me, and I have had 
many precious moments when I could say sin- 
cerely and joyfully, “Whom have I in heaven 
but Thee, and there is none upon earth that I 
desire besides Thee.” 

With a character still so undisciplined as mine. 
I serious^ doubt whether I could have made 
him happy who has honored me with his un- 
merited affection. Sometimes I think I am as 
impetuous and as quick-tempered as ever ; I get 
angry with dear mother, and with James even, 
if they oppose me ; how unfit, then, I am to 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


I 2 I 


become the mistress of a household and the wife 
of a good man ! 

How came he to love me ? I cannot, cannot 
imagine ! 

August 31. — The last day of the very 

happiest summer I ever spent. If I had only 
been willing to believe the testimony of others I 
might have been just as happy long ago. But I 
wanted to have all there was in God and all 
there was in the world, at once, and there was a 
constant, painful struggle between the two. I 
hope that struggle is now over. I deliberately 
choose and prefer God. I have found a sweet 
peace in trying to please Him such as I never 
conceived of. I would not change it for all the 
best things this world can give. 

But I have a great deal to learn. I am like a 
little child who cannot run to get what he wants, 
but approaches it step by step, slowly, timidly — 
and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the 
patience of my blessed Master and Teacher, but 
how I love His school ! 

September. — This, too, has been a de- 
lightful month in a certain sense. Amelia’s 
marriage, at which I had to be present, upset me 
a little, but it was but a little ruffle on a deep 
sea of peace. 

I saw Dr. Cabot to-day. He is quite well 


122 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


again, and speaks of Dr. Elliott’s skill with 
rapture. He asked about my Sunday-scholars 
and my poor folks, etc., and I could not help 
letting out a little of the new joy that has taken 
possession of me. 

“ This is as it should be,” he said. “I should 
be sorry to .see a person of your temperament 
enthusiastic in everything save religion. Do 
not be discouraged if you still have some ups 
and downs. ‘ He that is down need fear no 
fall ; ’ but you are away up on the heights, and 
may have one, now and then.” 

This made me a little uncomfortable. I don’t 
want any falls. I want to go on to perfection. 

Oct. i. — L aura Cabot came to see me to- 
day, and seemed very affectionate. 

“ I hope we may see more of each other than 
we have done,” she began. “ My father wishes 
it, and so do I.” 

Katy , mentally — “Ah ! he sees how unworldly 
how devoted I am, and so wants Laura under 
my influence. 

Katy , aloud. — “ I am sure that is very kind.” 

Laiira. — “Not at all. He knows it will be 
profitable to me to be with you. I get a good 
deal discouraged at times, and want a friend to 
strengthen and help me.” 

Katy , to herself. — “Yes, yes, he thinks me 
quite experienced and trustworthy.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


123 


Katy, aloud. — “ I shall never dare to try to 
help you." 

Laura . — “ Oh, yes, you must. I am so far 
behind you in Christian experience.” 

But I am ashamed to write down any more. 
After she had gone I felt delightfully puffed up 
for a while. But when I came up to my room 
this evening, and knelt down to pray, everything 
looked dark and chaotic. God seemed far away, 
and I took no pleasure in speaking to Him. I 
felt sure that I had done something or felt some- 
thing wrong, and asked Him to show me what 
it was. There then flashed into my mind the 
remembrance of the vain, conceited thoughts I 
had had during Caura’s visit and ever since. 

How perfectly contemptible ! I have had a 
fall indeed ! 

I think now my first mistake was in telling 
Dr. Cabot my secret, sacred joys, as if some 
merit of mine had earned them for me. That 
gave Satan a fine chance to triumph over me ! 
After this I am determined to maintain the 
utmost reserve in respect to my religious expe- 
riences. Nothing is gained by running to tell 
them, and much is lost. 

I feel depressed and comfortless. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Oct. io. 

We have very sad news from aunty. She 
says my uncle is quite broken down with some 
obscure disease that has been creeping stealthily 
along for months. All his physicians agree that 
he must give up his business and try the effect 
of a year’s rest. Dr. Elliott proposes his going 
to Europe, which seems to me about as formida- 
ble as going to the next w T orld. Aunty makes 
the best she can of it, but she says the thought 
of being separated from uncle a whole year is 
dreadful. I pray for her day and night, that 
this wild project may be given up. Why, he 
would be on the ocean ever so many weeks, 
exposed to all the discomforts of narrow quarters 
and poor food, and that just as winter is drawing 
nigh ! 


Oct. 12. — Aunty writes that the voyage 

to Europe has been decided on, and that Dr. 
Elliott is to accompany uncle, travel with him, 
amuse him, and bring him home a well man. I 
hope Dr. E.’s power to amuse may exist some- 
where, but must own it was in a most latent 

(124) 


5 TEPPING HE A YEN IV A PD. 1 2 5 

form when I had the pleasure of knowing him. 
Poor aunty ! How much better it would be for 
her to go with uncle ! There are all the children, 
to be sure. Well, I hope uncle may be the 
better for this great undertaking, but I don’t 
like the idea of it. 

Oct. 15. — Another letter from aunty, 

and new plans ! The doctor is to stay at home, 
aunty is to go with uncle, and we — mother and 
myself — are to take possession of the house and 
children during their absence ! In other words, 
all this is to be if we say amen. Could any- 
thing be more frightful? To refuse would be 
selfish and cruel. If we consent I thrust myself 
under Dr. Elliott’s very nose. 

Oct. 16. — Mother is surprised that I can 

hesitate one instant. She seems to have for- 
gotten all about Dr. E. She says we can easily 
find a family to take this house for a year, and 
that she is delighted to do anything for aunty 
that can be done. 

Nov. 4. — Here we are, the whole thing 

settled. Uncle and aunty started a week ago, 
and we are monarchs of all we survey, which is 
a great deal. I am determined that mother shall 
not be worn out with these children, although 
of course I could not manage them without her 


126 


5 TEPPING HE A YEN WA PD. 


advice and help. It is to be hoped they won’t 
all have the measels in a body, or anything of 
that sort ; I am sure it would be annoying to Dr. 
E. to come here now. 

Nov. 25. — Of course the baby must go 

on teething if only to have the doctor sent for to 
lance his gums. I told mother I was sure I 
could not be present when this was being done, 
so, though she looked surprised, and said people 
should accustom themselves to such things, she 
volunteered to hold baby herself. 

Nov. 26. — The baby was afraid of mother, 

not being used to her, so she sent for me. As I 
entered the room she gave him to me with an 
apology for doing so, since I shrank from wit- 
nessing the operation. What must Dr. E. think 
I am made of if I can’t bear to see a child’s 
gums lanced? However, it is my own fault that 
he thinks me such a coward, for I made mother 
think me one. It was very embarrassing to hold 
baby and have the doctor’s face so close to mine. 
I really wonder mother should not see how 
awkwardly I am situated here. 

Nov. 27. — We have a good many visi- 
tors, friends of uncle and aunty. How uninter- 
esting most people are ! They all say the same 
thing, namely, how strange that aunty had 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


127 


courage to undertake such a voyage, and to leave 
her children, etc., etc., etc., and what was Dr. 
Elliott thinking of to let them go, etc., etc., etc. 

Dr. Embury called to-day, with a pretty little 
fresh creature, his new wife, who hangs on his 
arm like a work-bag. He is Dr. Elliott’s inti- 
mate friend, and spoke of him very warmly, and 
so did his w T ife, who says she has known him 
always, as they were born and brought up in the 
same village. I wonder he did not marry her 
himself, instead of leaving her for Dr. Embury ! 

She says he, Dr. Elliott I mean, was the most 
devoted son she ever saw, and that he deserves 
his present success because he has made such 
sacrifices for his parents. I never met any one 
whom I liked so well on so short acquaintance — 
I mean Mrs. Embury, though you might fancy, 
you poor deluded journal you, that I meant 
somebody else. 

Nov. 30. — I have so much to do that I 

have little time for writing. The w r ay the 
children wear out their shoes and stockings, the 
speed with which their hair grows, the way they 
bump their heads and pinch their fingers, and 
the insatiable demand for stories, is something 
next to miraculous. Not a day passes that 
somebody doesn’t need something bought ; that 
somebody else doesn’t choke itself, and that I 
don’t have to tell .stories till I feel my intellect 


128 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


reduced to the size of a pea. If ever I was alive 
and wide awake, however, it is just now, and in 
spite of some vague shadows of, I don’t know 
what, I am very happy indeed. So is dear 
mother. She and the doctor have become bosom 
friends. He keeps her making beef-tea, scrap- 
ing lint, and boiling calves’ feet for jelly, till the 
house smells like a hospital. 

I suppose he thinks me a poor selfish, frivolous 
girl, whom nothing would tempt to raise a finger 
for his invalids. But, of course, I don’t care 
what he thinks. 

Dec. 4. — Dr. Elliott came this morning 

to ask mother to go with him to see a child who 
had met with a horrible accident. She turned 
pale, and pressed her lips together, but went at 
once to get ready. Then my long-suppressed 
wrath burst out : 

‘ ‘ How can you ask poor mother to go and see 
such sights?” I cried. “You must think her 
nothing but a stone, if you suppose that after 
the way in which my father died — ” 

“ It was indeed most thoughtless in me,” he 
interrupted ; ‘ ‘ but your mother is such a rare 
woman, so decided and self-controlled, yet so 
gentle, so full of tender sympathy, that I hardly 
know where to look for just the help I need 
to-day. If you could see this poor child, even 
you would justify me.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


129 


‘ ‘ Even you ! ’ ’ you monster of selfishness, 
heart of stone, floating bubble, “ even you ” 
“ would justify it ! ” 

How cruel, how unjust, how unforgiving he is! 

I rushed out of the room, and cried until I 
was tired. 

Dec. 6. — Mother says she feels really 

grateful to Dr. E. for taking her to see that 
child, and to help soothe and comfort it while 
he went through with a severe, painful operation 
which she would not describe, because she 
fancied I looked pale. I said I should think the 
child’s mother the most proper person to soothe 
it on such an occasion. 

“The poor thing has no mother,” she said, 
reproachfully. “ What has got into you, Kate ? 
You do not seem at all like yourself.” 

“ I should think you had enough to do with 
this great house to keep in order, so many 
mouths to fill, and so many servants to oversee, 
without wearing yourself out with nursing all 
Dr. Elliott’s poor folks,” I said, gloomily. 

“The more I have to do, the happier I am,” 
she replied. “Dear Katy, the old wound isn’t 
healed yet, and I like to be with those who have 
wounds and bruises of their own. And Dr. 
Elliott seems to have divined this by instinct.” 

I ran and kissed her dear, pale face, which 
grows more beautiful every day. No wonder 


130 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


she misses father so ! He loved and honored 
her beyond description, and never forgot one of 
those little courtesies which must have a great 
deal to do with a wife’s happiness. People said 
of him that he was a gentleman of the old school, 
and that race is dying out. 

I feel a good deal out of sorts myself. Oh, I 
do so wish to get above myself and all my 
childish, petty ways, and to live in a region 
where there is no temptation and no sin ! 

Dkc. 22.— I have been to see Mrs. Em- 
bury to-day. She did not receive me as cordially 
as usual, and I very soon resolved to come away. 
She detained me, how r ever. 

“Would you mind my speaking to you on a 
certain subject? ” she asked, with some embar- 
rassment. 

I felt myself flush up. 

“I do not want to meddle with affairs that 
don’t concern me,” she went on, “but Dr. 
Elliott and I have been intimate friends all our 
lives. And his disappointment has really dis- 
tressed me.” 

One of my moods came on, and I couldn’t 
speak a word. 

“You are not at all the sort of a girl I sup- 
posed he would fancy,” she continued. “ He 
always has said he was waiting to find some one 
just like his mother, and she is one of the 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 131 

gentlest, meekest, sweetest and fairest among 
women.” 

“You ought to rejoice then that he has 
escaped the snare,” I said, in a husky voice 
“and is free to marry his ideal, when he finds 
her.” 

“But that is just what troubles me. He is 
not free. He does not attach himself readily, 
and I am afraid that it will be a long, long time 
before he gets over this unlucky passion for 
you.” 

“ Passion ! ” I cried, contemptuously. 

She looked at me with some surprise, and then 
w 7 ent on. 

“Most girls would jump at the chance of 
getting such a husband.” 

“I don’t know that I particularly care to be 
classed with ‘ most girls,’ ” I replied, loftily. 

‘ ‘ But if you only knew him as well as I do. 
He is so noble, so disinterested, and is so 
beloved by his patients. I could tell you scores 
of anecdotes about him that would show just 
what he is.” 

“Thank you,” I said, “I think we have dis- 
cussed Dr. Elliott quite enough already. I can- 
not say that he has elevated himself in my 
opinion by making you take up the cudgels in 
his defence.” 

“You do him injustice, when you say that,” 
she cried. “ His sister, the only person to whom 


r 3 2 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


he confided the state of things, begged me to 
find out, if I could, whether you had any other 
attachment, and if her brother’s case was quite 
hopeless. But I am sorry I undertook the task, 
as it lias annoyed you so much.” 

I came away a good deal ruffled. When I 
got home mother said she was glad I had been 
out, at last, for a little recreation, and that she 
wished I did not confine myself so to the 
children. I said that I did not confine myself 
more than aunty did. 

“ But that is different,” mother objected. 
“She is their own mother, and love helps her 
to bear the burden.” 

“So it does me,” I returned. “I love the 
children exactly as if they w 7 ere my own.” 

“ That,” she said, “ is impossible,” 

“ I certainly do,” I persisted. 

Mother would not dispute with me, though I 
wished she would. 

“A mother,” she went on, “receives her 
children one at a time, and gradually adjusts 
herself to gradually increasing burdens. But 
you take a whole houseful upon you at once, 
and I am sure it is too much for you. You do 
not look or act like y’ourself.” 

“It isn’t the children,” I said. 

“ What is it, then ? ” 

“Why, it’s nothing,” I said, pettishly. 

“ I must say, dear,” said mother, not noticing 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


133 


my manner, “that your wonderful devotion to 
the children, aside from its effect on 3 r our health 
and temper, has given me great delight.” 

“ I don’t see why,” I said. 

‘ ‘ Very few girls of your age would give up 
their whole time, as you do, to such work. 

‘ ‘ That is because very few girls are as fond of 
children as I am. There is no virtue in doing 
exactly what one likes best to do.” 

“There, go away, you contrary child,” said 
mother, laughing. “If you won’t be praised, 
you won’t.” 

So I came up here and moped a little. I don’t 
see what ails me. 

But there is an under-current of peace that is 
not entirely disturbed by any outside event. In 
spite of my follies, and my short-comings, I do 
believe that God loves and pities me, and will 
yet perfect that which concerneth me. It is a 
great myster}". But so is everything. 

Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Crofton : 

And now, my dear friend, having 
issued my usual bulletin of health, you may feel 
quite at ease about your dear children, and I 
come to a point in your letter which I would 
gladly pass over in silence. But this would be 
but a poor return for the interest you express in 
my affairs. 

Both ladies are devoted to your little flock, 


134 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


and Miss Mortimer seems not to have a thought 
but for them. The high opinion I formed of her 
at the outset is more than justified by all I see 
of her daily household life. I know what her 
faults are, for she seems to take delight in 
revealing them. But I also know her rare vir- 
tues, and what a wealth of affection she has to 
bestow on the man who is so happy as to win 
her heart. But I shall never be that man. Her 
growing aversion to me makes me dread a sum- 
mons to your house, and I have hardly manliness 
enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I 
entreat you, therefore, never again to press this 
subject upon me. After all, I would not, if I 
could, dispense with the ministry of disappoint- 
ment and unrest. 

So she hates you, does she ? I am 
charmed to hear it. Indifference would be an 
alarming symptom, but good, cordial hatred, or 
what looks like it, is a most hopeful sign. The 
next chance you get to see her alone, assure her 
that you never shall repeat your first offence. 
If nothing comes of it, I am not a woman, and 
never was one ; nor is she.” 

March 25, 1836. — The New Year and 

my birthday have come and gone, and this is the 
first moment I could find for writing down all 
that has happened. 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A RD. 


135 


The day after my last date I was full of 
serious, earnest thoughts, of new desires to live, 
without one reserve, for God. I was smarting 
under the remembrance of my folly at Mrs. 
Embury’s, and with a sense of vague disappoint- 
ment and discomfort, had to fly closer than 
ever to Him. In the evening I thought I would 
go to the usual weekly .service. It is true I 
don’t like prayer-meetings, and that is a bad 
sign, I am afraid. But I am determined to go 
where good people go, and see if I can’t learn to 
like what they like. 

Mother went with me, of course. 

What was my surprise to find that Dr. E. was 
to preside ! I had no idea that he was that sort 
of a man. 

The hymns they sang were beautiful and did 
me good. So was his prayer. If all prayers 
were like that, I am sure I should like evening 
meetings as much as I now dislike them. He 
so evidently spoke to God in it, and as if he were 
used to such speaking. 

He then made a little address on the ministry 
of disappointments, as he called it. He spoke 
so cheerfully and hopefully that I began to see 
almost for the first time, God’s reason for the 
petty trials and crosses that help to make up 
every day of one’s life. He said there were few 
who were not constantly disappointed with them- 
selves, with their slow progress, their childish- 


136 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 

ness and weakness ; disappointed with their 
friends who, strangely enough, were never quite 
perfect enough, and disappointed with the world, 
which was always promising so much and giving 
so little. Then he urged to a wise and patient 
consent to this discipline, which, if rightly used, 
would help to temper and strengthen the soul 
against the day of sorrow and bereavement. 
But I am not doing him justice in this meagre 
report ; there was something almost heavenly in 
his expression which words cannot describe. 

Coming out I heard some one ask, “ Who was 
that young clergyman?” and the answer, “ Oh, 
that is only a doctor ! ” 

Well ! the next week I went again, with 
mother. We had hardly taken our seats when 
Dr. E. marched in with the sweetest looking 
little creature I ever saw. He was .so taken up 
with her that he did not observe either mother 
or myself. As she sat by my side I could not 
see her full face, but her profile was nearly per- 
fect. Her eyes were of that lovely blue one sees 
in violets, and the skies, with long, soft eye 
lashes, and her complexion was as pure as a 
baby’s. Yet she was not one of your doll 
beauties ; her face expressed both feeling and 
character. They sang together from the same 
book, though I offered her a share of mine. Of 
course, when people do that it can mean but one 
thing. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


T 37 


So it seems he has forgotten me, and consoled 
himself with this pretty little thing. No doubt 
she is like his mother, that “gentlest, meekest, 
sweetest and fairest among women ! ’ ’ 

Now if any body should be sick, and he should 
come here, I thought, wdiat would become of 
me ? I certainly could not help showing that a 
love that can so soon take up with a new object, 
could not have been a sentiment of much depth. 

It is not pleasant to lose even a portion of 
one’s respect and esteem for another. 

The next day mother went to visit an old 
friend of hers, who has a beautiful place outside 
of the city. The baby’s nurse had ironing to do, 
so I promised to sit in the nursery till it was 
finished. Lucy came, with her books, to sit 
with me. She always follows me like my 
shadow. After a while Mrs. Embury called. I 
hesitated a little about trusting the child to 
Lucy’s care, for though her prim ways have 
given her the reputation of being wise beyond 
her years, I observe that she is apt to get into 
trouble which a quick-witted child would either 
avoid or jump out of in a twinkling. However, 
children are often left to much younger girls, so, 
with many cautions, I went down, resolving to 
stay only a few moments. 

But I wanted so much to know all about that 
pretty little friend of Dr. E’s that I let Mrs. 
Embury stay on and on, though not a ray of 


1 38 STEPPING HE A VEN WARD. 

light did I get for my pains. At last I heard 
Lucy’s step comiiig down stairs. 

“Cousin Katy,” she said, entering the room 
with her usual propriety, “ I was seated by the 
window, engaged with my studies, and the chil- 
dren were playing about, as usual, when sud- 
denly I heard a shriek, and one of them ran past 
me, all in a blaze and — ” 

I believe I pushed her out of my way as I 
rushed up stairs, for I took it for granted I 
should meet the little figure all in a blaze, coming 
to meet me. But I found it wrapped in a 
blanket, the flames extinguished. Meanwhile, 
Mrs. Embury had roused the whole house, and 
everybody came running up stairs. 

“ Get the doctor, some of you,” I cried, clasp- 
ing the poor little writhing form in my arms. 

And then I looked to see which of them it 
was, and found it was aunty’s pet lamb, every- 
body’s pet lamb, our little loving, gentle Emma. 

Dr. Elliott must have come on wings, for I had 
not time to be impatient for his arrival. He was 
as tender as a woman wdth Emma ; we cut off 
and tore off her clothes wherever the fire had 
touched her, and he dressed the burns with his 
own hands. He did not speak a word to me, or 
I to him. This time he did not find it necessary 
to advise me to control myself. I was as cold 
and hard as a stone. 

But when poor little Emma’s piercing shrieks 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


139 


began to subside, and she came a little under the 
influence of some soothing drops he had given 
her at the outset, I began to feel that sensation 
in the back of my neck that leads to conquest 
over the most stubborn and the most heroic. I 
had just time to get Emma into the doctor’s 
arms, and then down I went. I got over it in a 
minute, and was up again before any one had 
time to come to the rescue. But Dr. E. gave 
Emma to Mrs. Embury, who had taken off her 
things and been crying all the time, and said in 
a low tone, “ I beg you will now leave the room, 
and lie down. And do not feel obliged to see 
me when I visit the child. That annoyance, at 
least, you should spare yourself.” 

“No consideration shall make me neglect 
little Emma,” I replied, defiantly. 

By this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her to 
sleep, and she lay, pale and with an air of com- 
plete exhaustion, in her arms. 

“You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer,” 
Dr. Elliott said, as he rose to go. “ I will re- 
turn in a few hours to see how you both do.” 

He stood looking at Emma, but did not go. 
Then Mrs. Embury asked the question I had not 
dared to ask. 

‘ ‘ Is the poor child in danger ? ’ ’ 

“ I cannot say ; I trust not. Miss Mortimer’s 
presence of mind in extinguishing the flames at 
once, has, I hope, saved its life.” 


140 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“It was not my presence of mind, it was 
Lucy’s!” I cried, eagerly. Oh, how I envied 
her for being the heroine, and for the surprised, 
delighted smile with which he went and took 
her hand, saying, “I congratulate you, Lucy! 
How your mother will rejoice at this ! ” 

I tried to think of nothing but poor little 
Emma, and of the reward aunty had had for her 
kindness to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and 
how likely it was that under the same circum- 
stances I should have been beside myself, and 
done nothing. This, and many other emotions, 
made me burst out crying. 

“Yes, cry, cry, with all your heart,” said 
Mrs. Embury, laying Emma gently down, and 
coming to get me into her arms. “ It will do 
you good, poor child ! ” 

She cried with me, till at last I could lie down 
and try to sleep. 

Well, the days and the w r eeks were very long 
after that. 

Dear mother had a hard time, with all her 
anxiety about Emma, and my crossness and 
unreasonableness. 

Dr. Elliott came and went, came and went. 
At last he said all danger was over, and that our 
patient little darling would get well. But his 
visits did not diminish ; he came twice and three 
times every day. Sometimes I hoped he would 
tell us about his new flame, and sometimes I felt 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 141 

that I could not hear her mentioned. One day 
mother was so unwell that I had to help him 
dress Emma’s burns, and I could not help say- 
ing : “ Even a mother’s gentlest touch, full of 

love as it is, is almost rough compared with that 
of one trained to such careful handling as you 
are.” 

He looked gratified, but said : “I am glad you 
begin to find that even stones feel, sometimes.” 

Another time something was said about the 
fickleness of women. Mrs. Embury began it. 
I fired up, of course. 

He seemed astonished at my attack. 

“/said nothing,” he declared. 

“No, but you looked a good many things. 
Now 7 the fact is, women are not fickle. When 
they lose what they value most, they find it im- 
possible to replace it. But men console them- 
selves with the first good thing that comes 
along.” 

I dare say I spoke bitterly, for I was thinking 

how soon Ch , I mean somebody, replaced 

me in his shallow heart, and how, with equal 
speed, Dr. Elliott had helped himself to a new 
love. 

“ I do not like these sweeping assertions,” said 
Dr. Elliott, looking a good deal annoyed. 

“ I have to say what I think,” I persisted. 

“It is well to think rightly, then,” he said, 
gravely. 


142 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“By the by, have you heard from Helen? ” 
Mrs. Embury most irrelevantly asked. 

“ Yes, I heard yesterday.” 

“ I suppose you will be writing her, then? Will 
you enclose a little note from me ? Or rather let 
me have the least corner of your sheet ? ” 

I was shocked at her want of delicacy. Of 
course this Helen must be the new love, and how 
could a woman with two grains of sense, imagine 
he would want to spare her a part of his sheet ! 

I felt tired and irritated. As soon as Dr. 
Elliott had gone, I began to give her a good 
setting down. 

“I could hardly believe my ears,” I said, 
“when I heard you ask leave to write on Dr. 
Elliott’s sheet.” 

“No wonder,” she said laughing. “I sup- 
pose you never knew what it was to have to 
count every shilling, and to deny yourself the 
pleasure of writing to a friend because of what 
it would cost. I’m sure I never did till I was 
married.” 

“ But to ask him to let you help write his 
love-letters,” I objected. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! is that the way the wind blows ? ’ ’ she 
cried, nodding her pretty little head. “Well 
then, let me relieve your mind, my dear, by 
informing you that this ‘ love-letter ’ is to his 
sister, my dearest friend, and the sweetest little 
thing you ever saw.” 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD . 


143 


“ Oh ! ” I said, and immediately felt quite 
rested, and quite like myself. 

Like myself ! And who is she, pray ? Two 
souls dwell in my poor little body, and which of 
them is me, and which of them isn’t, it would 
be hard to tell. This is the way they behave : 

Scene First. 

Katy, to the other creature, whom I will call 
Kate. — Your mother looks tired, and you have 
been very cross. Run and put your arms around 
her, and tell her how you love her. 

Kate. — Oh, I can’t ; it would look queer. I 
don’t like palaver. Besides, who would not be 
cross who felt as I do ? 

Scene Second. 

Katy . — Little Emma has nothing to do, and 
ought to be amused. Tell her a story, do. 

Kate . — I am tired, and need to be amused 
myself. 

Katy . — But the dear little thing is so patient, 
and has suffered so much ! 

Kate. — Well, I have suffered, too. If she had 
not climbed up on the fender she would not have 
got burned. 

Scene Third. 

Katy . — You are very irritable to-day. You 
had better go up stairs to your room and pray 
for patience. 

Kate . — One can’t be always praying. I don’t 
feel like it. 


144 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Scene Fourth. 

Katy . — You treat Dr. Elliott shamefully. I 
should think he would really avoid you as you 
avoid him. 

Kate. — Don’t let me hear his name. I don’t 
avoid him. 

Katy . — You do not deserve his good opinion. 

Kate. — Yes, I do. 

Scene Fifth. 

Just awake in the morning. 

Katy. — Oh, dear ! how hateful I am ! I am 
cross and selfish, and domineering, and vain. I 
think of myself the whole time ; I behave like a 
heroine when Dr. Elliott is present, and like a 
naughty, spoiled child when he is not. Poor 
mother ! how can she endure me ? As to my 
piety, it is worse than none. 

Kate , a few hours later. Well, nobody can 
deny that I have a real gift in managing chil- 
dren ! And I am very lovable, or mother 
wouldn’t be so fond of me. I am always pleas- 
ant unless I am sick, or worried, and my temper 
is not half so hasty as it used to be. I never 
think of n^self, but am all the time doing some- 
thing for others. As to Dr. E., I am thankful 
to say that I have never stooped to attract him 
by putting on airs and graces. He sees me just 
as I am. And I am very devout. I love to 
read good books and to be with good people. I 
pray a great deal. The bare thought of doing 


STEPPING HEAVE NIVA PE. 


145 


wrong makes me shudder. Mother is proud of 
me, and I don’t wonder. Very few girls would 
have behaved as I did when Emma was burned. 
Perhaps I am not as sweet as some people. I 
am glad of it. I hate sweet people. I have 
great strength of character, which is much bet- 
ter, and am certainly very high-toned. 

But, my poor journal, you can’t stand any 
more such stuff, can you ? But tell me one 
thing, am I Katy, or am I Kate ? 


CHAPTER X. 


April 20. 

Yesterday I felt better than I have done 
since the accident. I ran about the house quite 
cheerily, for me. I wanted to see mother for 
something, and flew singing into the parlor, 
where I had left her shortly before. But she 
was not there, and Dr. Elliott was. I started 
back, and was about to leave the room, but he 
detained me. 

“ Come in, I beg of you,” he said, his voice 
growing hoarser and hoarser. ‘ * Let us put a 
stop to this.” 

‘ ‘ To what ? ” I asked, going nearer and nearer, 
and looking up into his face, which was quite 
pale. 

“ To your evident terror of being alone with 
me, of hearing me speak. Eet me assure you, 
once for all, that nothing would tempt me to 
annoy you by urging myself upon you, as you 
seem to fear I may be tempted to do. I cannot 
force you to love me, nor would I if I could. If 
you ever want a friend you w T ill find one in me. 
But do not think of me as your lover, or treat 
me as if I were always lying in wait for a chance 

(146) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


147 


to remind you of it. That I shall never do, 
never.” 

“ Oh, no, of course not ! ” I broke forth, my 
face all in a glow, and tears of mortification rain- 
ing down my cheeks. ‘ ‘ I knew you did not 
care for me ! I knew you had got over it ! ” 

I don’t know which of us began it, I don’t 
think he did, and I am sure I did not, but the 
next moment I was folded all up in his great 
long arms, and a new life had begun ! 

Mother opened the door not long after, and 
seeing what was going on, trotted away on her 
dear old feet as fast as she could. 

April 21. — I am too happy to write jour- 
nals. To think how we love each other ! 

Mother behaves beautifully. 

April 25.— One does not feel like saying 

much about it, when one is as happy as I am. I 
walk the streets as one treading on air. I fly 
about the house as on wings. I kiss everybody 
I see. 

Now that I look at Ernest (for he makes me 
call him so) with unprejudiced eyes, I wonder I 
ever thought him clumsy. And how ridiculous 
it was in me to confound his dignity and manli- 
ness with age ! 

It is very odd, however, that such a cautious, 
well-balanced man should have fallen in love 


148 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


with me that day at Sunday-school. And still 
stranger that with my headlong, impulsive nature 
I deliberately walked into love with him ! 

I believe we shall never get through with what 
we have to say to each other. I am afraid we 
are rather selfish to leave mother to herself 
every evening. 

Sept. 5. — This has been a delightful 

summer. To be sure’ we had to take the chil- 
dren to the country for a couple of months, but 
Ernest’s letters are almost better than Ernest 
himself. I have written enough to him to fill a 
dozen books. We are going back to the city 
now. In his last letter Ernest says he has been 
home, and that his mother is delighted to hear 
of his engagement. He says, too, that he went 
to see an old lady, one of the friends of his boy- 
hood, to tell the news to her. 

“When I told her,” he goes on, “that I had 
found the most beautiful, the noblest, the most 
loving of human beings, she only said, ‘ Of 
course, of course ! ’ 

“Now, you know, dear, that it is not at all of 
course, but the very strangest, most wonderful 
event in the history of the world.” 

And then he described a scene he had just 
witnessed at the death bed of a young girl, of 
my own age, who left this world and every pos- 
sible earthly joy, with a delight in the going to 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


149 


be with Christ, that made him really eloquent. 
Oh, how glad I am that God has cast in my lot 
with a man whose whole business is to minister 
to others ! I am sure this will, of itself, keep 
him unworldly and unselfish. How delicious it 
is to love such a character, and how happy I 
shall be to go with him to sick-rooms and to 
dying beds ! He has already taught me that 
lessons learned in such scenes far outweigh 
in value what books and sermons, even, can 
teach. 

And now, my dear old journal, let me tell you 
a secret that has to do with life, and not with 
death. 

I am going to be married ! 

To think that I am always to be with Ernest ! 
To sit at the table with him every day, to pray 
with him, to go to church with him, to have 
him all mine ! I am sure that there is not another 
man on earth whom I could love as I love him. 

The thought of marrying Cli I mean of 

having that silly, school-girl engagement end in 
marriage, was always repugnant to me. But I 
give myself to Ernest joyfully and with all my 
heart. 

How good God has been to me ! I do hope 
and pray that this new, this absorbing love, has 
not detached my soul from Him, will not detach 
it. If I knew it would, could I, should I have 
courage to cut it off, and cast it from me ? 


150 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


Jan. 16, 1837. — Yesterday was my birth- 
day, and to-day is my wedding-day. We meant 
to celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday 
would come this year on the fifteenth. 

I am dressed, and have turned everybody out 
of this room, where I have suffered so much 
mortification, and experienced so much joy, that 
before I give myself to Krnest, and before I leave 
home forever, I may once more give myself away 
to God. I have been too much absorbed in my 
earthly love, and am shocked to find how it fills 
my thoughts. But I will belong to God. I will 
begin my married life in His fear, depending on 
Him to make me an unselfish, devoted wife. 

Jan. 25. — We had a delightful trip after 

the wedding was over. Ernest proposed to take 
me to his own home that I might see his mother 
and sister. He never has said that he wanted 
them to see me. But his mother is not well. I 
am heartily glad of it. I mean I was glad to 
escape going there to be examined and criticized. 
Every one of them would pick at me, I am sure, 
and I don’t like to be picked at. 

We have a home of our own, and I am trying 
to take kindly to house-keeping. Ernest is away 
a great deal more than I expected he would be. 
I am fearfully lonely. Aunty comes to see me 
as often as she can, and I go there almost every 
day, but that doesn’t amount to much. As soon 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 151 

as I can venture to do it, I shall ask Ernest to 
let me invite mother to come and live with us. 
It is not right for her to be left alone so. I 
hoped he would do that himself. But men are 
not like women. We think of everything. 

Feb. 16. — Our honeymoon ends to-day. 

There hasn’t been quite as much honey in it as I 
expected. I supposed that Ernest would be at 
home every evening, at least, and that he would 
read aloud, and have me play and sing, and that 
we should have delightful times together. But 
now he has got me he seems satisfied, and goes 
about his business as if he had been married a 
hundred years. In the morning he goes off to 
see his list of patients ; he is going in and out 
all day ; after dinner we sit down to have a nice 
talk together, the door bell invariably rings, and 
he is called away. Then in the evening he 
goes and sits in his office and studies; I don’t 
mean every minute, but he certainly spends 
hours there. To-day he brought me such a 
precious letter from dear mother ! I could not 
help crying when I read it, it was so kind 
and so loving. Ernest looked amazed ; he 
threw down his paper, came and took me in his 
arms and asked, ‘ ‘ What is the matter, darling ? ” 
Then it all came out. I said I w 7 as lonely, 
and hadn’t been used to spending my even- 
ings all by myself. 


152 


5 TEPPI NG HE A VEN WA RD. 


“You must get some of your friends to come 
and see you, poor child,” he said. 

“I don’t want friends,” I sobbed out, “I 
want you. ’ ’ 

“Yes, darling; why didn’t you tell me so 
sooner? Of course I will stay with you if you 
wish it.” 

“ If that is your only reason, I am sure I don’t 
want you,” I pouted. 

He looked puzzled. 

“I really don’t know what to do,” he said, 
with a most comical look of perplexity. But he 
went to his office, and brought up a pile of fusty 
old books. 

“Now, dear, he said, we understand each 
other, I think. I can read here just as well as 
down stairs. Get your book and we shall be as 
cosy as possible.” 

My heart felt sore and dissatisfied. Am I 
unreasonable and childish ? What is married 
life? An occasional meeting, a kiss here and a 
caress there? or is it the sacred union of the 
twain who walk together side by side, knowing 
each other’s joys and sorrows, and going heaven- 
ward hand in hand ? 

Feb. 17. — Mrs. Embury has been here 

to-day. I longed to compare notes with her, and 
find out whether it really is my fault that I am 
not quite happy. But I could not bear to open 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


J 53 


my heart to her on so sacred a subject. We had 
some general conversation, however, which did 
me good for the time, at least. 

She said she thought one of the first lessons a 
wife should learn is self-forgetfulness. I won- 
dered if she had seen anything in me to call 
forth this remark. We meet pretty often ; partly 
because our husbands are such good friends, 
partly because she is as fond of music as I am, 
and we like to sing and play together, and I 
never see her that she does not do or say some- 
thing elevating ; something that strengthens my 
own best purposes and desires. But she knows 
nothing of my conflict and dismay, and never 
will. Her gentle nature responds at once to holy 
influences. I feel truly grateful to her for loving 
me, for she really does love me, and yet she must 
see my faults. 

I should like to know if there is any reason on 
earth why a woman should learn self-forgetful- 
ness that does not apply to a man ? 

Feb. i 8 . — Uncle says he has no doubt he 
owes his life to Ernest, who, in the face of oppo- 
sition to other physicians, insisted on his giving 
up his business and going off to Europe at just 
the right moment. For his partner, whose 
symptoms were very like his own, has been 
stricken down with paralysis, and will not 


recover. 


154 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


It is very pleasant to hear Ernest praised, and 
it is a pleasure I have very often, for his friends 
come to see me, and speak of him with rapture. 
A lady told me that through the long illness of 
a sweet young daughter of hers, he prayed with 
her every day, ministering so skilfully to her 
soul, that all fear of death was taken away, and 
she just longed to go, and did go at last, with 
perfect delight. I think he spoke of her to me 
once, but he did not tell me that her preparation 
for death w 7 as his work. I could not conceive of 
him as doing that. 

Feb. 24. — Ernest has been gone a week. 

His mother is worse and he had to go. I wanted 
to go too, but he said it was not worth while, as 
he should have to return directly. Dr. Embury 
takes charge of his patients during his absence, 
and Mrs. E. and aunty and the children come to 
see me very often. I like Mrs. Embury more 
and more. She is not so audacious as I am, but 
I believe she agrees with me more than she will 
own. 


Feb. 25. — Ernest writes that his mother 

is dangerously ill, and seems in great distress. I 
am mean enough to want all his love myself, 
while I should hate him if he gave none to her. 
Poor Ernest ! If she should die he would be 
sadly afflicted ! 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


155 


— Feb. 27. — She died the very day he 
wrote. How I long to fly to him and to comfort 
him ! I can think of nothing else. I pray day 
and night that God would make me a better wife. 

A letter came from mother at the same time 
with Ernest’s. She evidently misses me more 
than she will own. Just as soon as Ernest re- 
turns home, I will ask him to let her come and 
live with us. I am sure he will ; he loves her 
already, and now that his own mother has gone 
he will find her a real comfort. I am sure she 
will only make our home the happier. 

Feb. 28. — Such a dreadful thing is going 

to happen ! I have cried and called myself 
names by turns all day. Ernest writes that it 
has been decided to give up the old homestead, 
and scatter the family about among the married 
sons and daughters. Our share is to be his 
father and his sister Martha, and he desires me 
to have two rooms made ready for them at once. 

So all the glory and the beauty is snatched out 
of my married life at one swoop ! And it is 
done by the hand I. love best, and that I would 
not have believed could be so unkind. 

I am rent in pieces by conflicting emotions and 
passions. One moment I am all tenderness and 
sympathy for poor Ernest, and ready to sacrifice 
everything for his pleasure. The next I am 
bitterly angry with him for disposing of all my 


156 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


happiness in this arbitrary way. If he had let 
me make cause with him and share his interests 
with him, I know I am not so abominably selfish 
as to feel as I do now. But he forces two per- 
fect strangers upon me, and forever shuts our 
doors against my darling mother. For of course 
she can not live with us if they do. 

And who knows what sort of people they are? 
It is not everybody I can get along with, nor is 
it everybody can get along with me. Now if 
Helen were coming instead of Martha, that 
would be some relief. I could love her, I am 
sure, and she would put up with my ways. But 
your Marthas I am afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, 
what a nest of scorpions this affair has stirred 
up within me ! Who would believe I could be 
thinking of my own misery while Ernest’s 
mother, whom he loved so dearly, is hardly in her 
grave ! But I have no heart, I am stony and cold. 
It is well to have found out just what I am ! 

Since I wrote that I have been trying to tell 
God all about it. But I could not speak for cry- 
ing. And I have been getting the rooms ready. 
How many little things I had planned to put in 
the best one, which I intended for mother ! 
I have made myself arrange them just the same 
for Ernest’s father. The stuffed chair I have 
had in my room, and enjoyed so much, has been 
rolled in, and the Bible with large print placed 
on the little table near which I had pictured 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


157 


mother with her sweet, pale face, as sitting year 
after year. The only thing I have taken away 
is the copy of father’s portrait. He won’t want 
that ! 

When I had finished this business I went and 
shook my fist at the creature I saw in the glass. 

“You’re beaten!’’ I cried. “ You didn’t 
want to give up the chair, nor your writing table, 
nor the Bible in which you expect to record the 
names of your ten children ! But you’ve had to 
do it, so there ! ’’ 

March 3. — They all got here at 7 o’clock 

last night, just in time for tea. I was so glad to 
get hold of Ernest once more that I was gracious 
to my guests too. The very first thing, however, 
Ernest annoyed me by calling me Katherine, 
though he knows I hate that name, and want to 
be called Katy as if I were a lovable person, as I 
certainly am (sometimes). Of course his father 
and his Martha called me Katherine too. 

His father is even taller, darker, blacker-eyed, 
blacker-haired than he. 

Martha is a spinster. 

I had got up a nice little supper for them, 
thinking they would need something substantial 
after their journey. And perhaps there was 
some vanity in the display of dainties that needed 
the mortification I felt at seeing my guests push 
away their plates in apparent disgust. Ernest, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


158 

too, looked annoyed, and expressed some regret 
that they could find nothing to tempt their 
appetites. 

Martha said something about not expecting 
much from young housekeepers, which I inward- 
ly resented, for the light, delicious bread had 
been sent by aunty, together with other luxuries 
from her own table, and I knew they were not 
the handiwork of a young housekeeper, but of 
old Chloe, who had lived in her own and her 
mother’s family for twenty years. 

Ernest went out as soon as this unlucky repast 
was over, to hear Dr. Embury’s report of his 
patients, and we passed a dreary evening, as my 
mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. 
The more I tried to think of something to say, 
the more I couldn’t. 

At last Martha asked at what time we break- 
fasted. 

“At half -past seven, precisely,’’ I answered. 
“ Ernest is very punctual about breakfast. The 
other meals are more irregular.’’ 

“ That is very late,’’ she returned. “ Father 
rises early and needs his breakfast at once.’’ 

I said I would see that fie had it as early as he 
liked, while I foresaw that this would cost me a 
battle with the divinity who reigned in the 
kitchen. 

“ You need not trouble yourself. I will speak 
to my brother about it,” she said. 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PI). 


159 


% 

“Ernest has nothing to do with it,” I said, 
quickly. 

She looked at me in a speechless way, and then 
there was a long silence, during which she shook 
her head a number of times. At last she in- 
quired, “ Did you make the bread we had on the 
table to-night ? ’ ’ 

“ No, I do not know how to make bread,” I 
said, smiling at her look of horror. 

“ Not know how to make bread ! ” she cried. 

The very spirit of mischief got into me, and 
made me ask, ‘ ‘ Why, can you ? ’ ’ 

Now I know there is but one other question I 
could have asked her, less insulting than this, 
and that is, ‘ ‘ Do you know the ten command- 
ments ? ’ ’ 

A spinster fresh from a farm not know how to 
make bread, to be sure ! 

But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that 
I had yielded to myself so far as to forget the 
courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just 
come from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the 
room, seized her hand, and said, eagerly, “ Do 
forgive me ! It slipped out before I thought ! 5 ’ 

She looked at me in blank amazement, uncon- 
scious that there was anything to forgive. 

“ How you startled me ! ” she said, “I thought 
you had suddenly gone crazy.” 

I went back to my seat crest-fallen enough. 
All this time Ernest’s father had sat grim and 


i6o 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


grave in his corner, without a word. But now 
he spoke. 

“ At what hour does my son have family wor- 
ship ? I should like to retire. I feel very 
weary.” 

Now family worship at night consists in our 
kneeling down together hand in hand, the last 
thing before going to bed, and in our own room. 
The awful thought of changing this sweet, 
informal habit into a formal one, made me reply 
quickly : 

“Oh, Ernest is very irregular about it. He 
is often out in the evening, and sometimes we 
are up quite late. I hope you never will feel 
obliged to wait for him.” 

“I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it 
costs,” was the answer. 

Oh, how I wished they would go to bed ! 

It was now ten o’clock, and I felt tired and 
restless. When Ernest is out late I usually lie 
on the sofa and wait for him, and so am bright 
and fresh when he comes in. But now I had to 
sit up, and there was no knowing for how long. 
I poked at the fire and knocked down the shovel 
and tongs, now I leaned back in my chair, and 
now I leaned forward ; and then I listened for 
his step. At last he came. 

“What, are you not all gone to bed?” he 
asked. As if I could go to bed when I had 
scarcely seen him a moment since his return ! 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


161 


I explained why we waited, and then we had 
prayers and escorted our guests to their rooms. 
When we got back to the parlor I was thankful 
to rest my tired soul in Ernest’s arms, and to 
hear what little he had to tell about his mother’s 
last hours. 

“ You must love me more than ever, now,” he 
said, “ for I have lost my best friend.” 

“Yes,” I said, “I will.” As if that were 
possible ! All the time we were talking I heard 
the greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem 
to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, 
or her father, or both together, had changed 
the positions of every article of furniture in the 
room, making it look like a fright. 


CHAPTER XI. 


March io. 

Things are even worse than I expected. 
Ernest evidently looked at me with his father’s 
eyes, (and his father has got the jaundice, or 
something,) and certainly is cooler towards me 
than he was before he went home. Martha still 
declines eating more than enough to keep body 
and soul together, and sits at the table with 
the air of a martyr. Her father lives on 
crackers and stewed prunes, and when he has 
eaten them, fixes his melancholy eyes on me, 
watching every mouthful with an air of plain- 
tive regret that I will consume so much un- 
wholesome food. 

Then Ernest positively spends less time with 
me than ever, and sits in his office reading and 
writing nearly every evening. 

Yesterday I came home from an exhilarating 
walk, and a charming call at aunty’s, and at the 
dinner-table gave a lively account of some of the 
children’s exploits. Nobody laughed, and no- 
body made any response, and after dinner Ernest 
took me aside, and said, kindly enough, but still 
said it: “My little wife must be careful how 

(162) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


163 

she runs on in my father’s presence. He has 
great dread of everything that might be thought 
levity.” 

“ Then all the vials of my wrath exploded and 
went off. 

“Yes, I see how it is,” I cried, passionately. 
“You and your father and your sister have got 
a box about a foot square that you w r ant to 
squeeze me into. I have seen it ever since they 
came. And I can tell you it will take more than 
three of you to do it. There was no harm in 
what I said — none, whatever. If }^ou only mar- 
ried me for the sake of screwing me down and 
freezing me up, why didn’t you tell me so before 
it was too late ? ” 

Ernest stood looking at me like one staring 
at a problem he had to solve, and didn’t know 
where to begin. 

“ I am very sorry,” he said. “ I thought you 
would be glad to have me give you this little 
hint. Of course I want you to appear your very 
best before my father and sister.” 

“ My very best is my real self,” I cried. “ To 
talk like a woman of forty is unnatural to a girl 
of my age. If your father doesn’t like me I 
wish he would go away, and not come here 
putting notions into your head, and making you 
as cold and hard as a stone. Mother liked to 
have me ‘run on,’ as you call it, and I wish I 
had staid with her all my life.” 


1 64 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“Do you mean,” lie asked, very gravely, 
“ that you really wish that ? ” 

“No,” I said, “I don’t mean it,” for his 
husky, troubled voice brought me to my senses. 
“ All I mean is, that I love you so dearly, and 
you keep my heart feeling so hungry and rest- 
less; and then you went and brought your father 
and sister here and never asked me if I should 
like it ; and you crowded mother out, and she 
lives all alone, and it isn’t right ! I always said 
that whoever married me had got to marry 
mother, and I never dreamed that you would 
disappoint me so ! ’’ 

“ Will you stop crying, and listen to me?’’ he 
said. 

But I could not stop. The floods of the great 
deep were broken up at last, and I had to cry. 
If I could have told my troubles to some one I 
could thus have found vent for them, but there 
was no one to whom I had a right to speak of 
my husband. 

Ernest walked up and down in silence. Oh, 
if I could have cried on his breast, and felt that 
he loved and pitied me ! 

At last, as I grew quieter, he came and sat 
by me. 

“ This has come upon me like a thunderclap,’’ 
he said. “I did not know I kept your heart 
hungry, I did not know you wished your mother 
to live with us. And I took it for granted that 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 165 

my wife, with her high-toned, heroic character, 
would sustain me in every duty, and welcome 
my father and sister to our home. I do not 
know what I can do now. Shall I send them 
away ? ’ ’ 

“ No, no ! ” I cried. “ Only be good to me, 
Ernest, only love me, only look at me with your 
own eyes, and not with other people’s. You 
knew I had faults when you married me; I never 
tried to conceal them.” 

“And did you fancy I had none myself?” 
he asked. 

“ N — o,” I replied. “ I saw no faults in you. 
Everybody said you were such a noble, good 
man, and you spoke so beautifully one night at 
an evening meeting ! ” 

“ Speaking beautifully is little to the purpose 
unless one lives beautifully,” he said, sadly. 
“ And now is it possible that you and I, a Chris- 
tian man and a Christian woman, are going on 
and on with such scenes as this ? Are you to 
wear your very life out because I have not your 
frantic way of loving, and am I to be made weary 
of mine because I cannot satisfy you ?” 

“But, Ernest,” I said, “you used to satisfy 
me. Oh, how happy I was in those first days 
when we were always together, and you seemed 
so fond of me ! ” I was down on the floor by 
this time, and looking up into his pale, anxious 
face. 


i66 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ Dear child,” he said, “I do love you, and 
that more than you know. But you would not 
have me leave my work and spend my whole 
time telling you so ? ” 

“You know I am not so silly/’ I cried. “ It 
is not fair, it is not right to talk as if I were. I 
ask for nothing unreasonable. I only want those 
little daily assurances of your affection which I 
should suppose would be spontaneous if you felt 
at all towards me as I do to you.” 

“The fact is,” he returned, “I am absorbed 
in my work. It brings many grave cares and 
anxieties. I spend most of my time amid scenes 
of suffering and at dying beds. This makes me 
seem abstracted and cold, but it does not make 
you less dear. On the contrary, the sense it 
gives me of the brevity and sorrowfulness of life 
makes you doubly precious, since it constantly 
reminds me that sick beds and dying beds must 
sooner or later come to our home as to those of 
others.” 

I clung to him as he uttered these terrible 
words in an agony of terror. 

“Oh, Ernest, promise me, promise me that 
you will not die first,” I pleaded. 

“Foolish little thing ! ” he said, and was as 
silly, for a while, as the silliest heart could ask. 
Then he became serious again. 

“ Katy,” he said, “ if you can once make up 
your mind to the fact that I am an undemonstra- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 167 

tive man, not all fire and fury and ecstaey as you 
are, yet loving you with all my heart, however 
it may seem, I think you will spare yourself 
much needed pain — and spare me, also.” 

“But I want you to be demonstrative,” I 
persisted. 

‘ ‘ Then you must teach me. And about my 
father and sister, perhaps we may find some way 
of relieving you by and by. Meanwhile, try to 
bear with the trouble they make, for my sake.” 

“ But I don’t mind the trouble ! Oh, Ernest, 
how you do misunderstand me ! What I mind 
is their coming between you and me and making 
you love me less. ’ ’ 

By this time there was a call for Ernest — it is 
a wonder there had not been forty — and he went. 

I feel as heart-sore as ever. What has been 
gained by this tempest? Nothing at all ! Poor 
Ernest ! How can I worry him so when he is 
already full of care ? 

March 20. — I have had such a truly 

beautiful letter to-day from dear mother ! She 
gives up the hope of coming to spend her last 
years with us with a sweet patience that makes 
me cry whenever I think of it. What is the 
secret of this instant and cheerful consent to 
whatever God wills? Oh, that I had it, too ! 
She begs me to be considerate and kind to 
Ernest’s father and sister, and constantly to re- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


1 68 

mind myself that my heavenly Father has chosen 
to give me this care and trial on the very thresh- 
old of my married life. I am afraid I have quite 
lost sight of that in my indignation with Ernest 
for bringing them here. 

April 3. — Martha is closeted with Ernest 

in his office day and night. They never give 
me the least hint of what is going on in these 
secret meetings. Then this morning, Sarah, my 
good, faithful cook, bounced into my room to 
give warning. She said she could not live wdiere 
there were two mistresses giving contrary direc- 
tions. 

“But, really, there is but one mistress,” I 
urged. Then it came out that Martha went 
down every morning to look after the soap-fat, 
and to scrimp in the house-keeping, and see that 
there was no food wasted. I remembered then 
that she had inquired whether I attended to these 
details, evidently ranking such duties with say- 
ing one’s prayers and reading one’s Bible. 

I flew to Ernest the moment he was at leisure 
and poured my grievances into his ear. 

“ Well, dear,” he said, “ suppose you give up 
the house-keeping to Martha ! She will be far 
happier and you will be freed from much annoy- 
ing, petty care.” 

I bit my tongue lest it should say something, 
and went back to Sarah. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 169 

“ Suppose Miss Elliott takes charge of the 
house-keeping, and I have nothing to do with it, 
will you stay ? ’ ’ 

Indeed, and I won’t then. I can’t bear her, 
and I won’t put up with her nasty, scrimping, 
pinching ways ! ’ ’ 

“ Very well. Then you will have to go,” I 
said with great dignity, though just ready to 
cry. Ernest on being applied to for wages, 
undertook to argue the question himself. 

“My sister will take the whole charge,” he 
began. 

“And may and welcome for all me,” quoth 
Sarah. “ I don’t like her and never shall.” 

“ Your liking and disliking her is of no conse- 
quence whatever,” said Ernest. “ You may dis- 
like her as much as you please. But you must 
not leave us.” 

“Indeed, and I’m not going to stay and be 
put upon by her,” persisted Sarah. So she has 
gone. We had to get dinner ourselves ; that is 
to say, Martha did, for she said I got in her 
way, and put her out with my awkwardness. I 
have been running hither and thither to find 
some angel who will consent to live in this ill 
assorted household. Oh, how different every- 
thing is from what I had planned ! I wanted a 
cheerful home, where I should be the centre of 
every joy ; a home like aunty’s, without a cloud. 
But Ernest’s father sits, the personification of 


170 STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 

silent gloom, like a nightmare on my spirits ; 
Martha holds me in disfavor and contempt ; 
Ernest is absorbed in his profession, and I hard- 
ly see him. If he wants advice he asks it of 
Martha, while I sit humbled, degraded and 
ashamed, wondering why he ever married me at 
all. And then come interludes of wild joy when 
he appears just as he did in the happy days of 
our bridal trip, and I forget every grievance and 
hang on his words and looks like one intoxicated 
with bliss. 

Oct. 2. — There has been another explo- 
sion. I held in as long as I could, and then flew 
into ten thousand pieces. Ernest had got into 
the habit of helping his father and sister at the 
table, and apparently forgetting me. It seems 
a little thing, but it chafed and fretted my 
already irritated soul till at last I was almost 
beside myself. 

Yesterday they all three sat eating their break- 
fast and I, with empty plate, sat boiling over and 
looking on, when Ernest brought things to a 
crisis by saying to Martha. 

‘ ‘ If you can find time to-day I wish you would 
go out with me for half an hour or so. I want 
to consult you about — ” 

“Oh!” I said, rising, with my face all in a 
flame, “do not trouble yourself to go out in 
order to escape me. I can leave the room and 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


171 

you can have your secrets to yourselves as 3^011 
do your breakfast ! ’ ’ 

I don’t know which struck me most, Ernest’s 
appalled, grieved look, or the glance exchanged 
between Martha and her father. 

He did not hinder my leaving the room, and I 
went up-stairs, as pitiable an object as could be 
seen. I heard him go to his office, then take 
his hat and set forth on his rounds. What 
wretched hours I passed, thus left alone ! One 
moment I reproached myself, the next I was 
indignant at the long series of offences that had 
led to this disgraceful scene. 

At last Ernest came. 

He looked concerned, and a little pale. 

“ Oh, Ernest ! ” I cried, running to him, “ I 
am so sorry I spoke to you as I did ! But, 
indeed, I cannot stand the way things are going 
on ; I am wearing all out. Everybody speaks of 
my growing thin. Feel of my hands. They 
burn like fire.” 

“ I knew you would be sorry, dear,” he said. 
“ Yes, your hands are hot, poor child.” 

There was a long, dreadful silence. And }^et 
I was speaking, and perhaps he was. I was 
begging and beseeching God not to let us drift 
apart, not to let us lose one jot or tittle of our 
love to each other, to enable me to understand 
my dear, dear husband and make him under- 
stand me. 


172 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


Then Ernest began. 

“ What was it vexed you, dear? What is it 
you can’t stand ? Tell me. I am your husband, 
I love you, I want to make you happy.” 

“Why, you are having so many secrets that 
y^ou are keeping from me ; and you treat me as 
if I were only a child, consulting Martha about 
every- thing. And of late you seem to have for- 
gotten that I am at the table, and never help me 
to anything ! ’ ’ 

“Secrets!” he re-echoed. “What possible 
secrets can I have ? ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know,” I said, sinking wearily back 
on the sofa. “ Indeed, Ernest, I don’t want to 
be selfish or exacting, but I am very unhappy.” 

“Yes, I see it, poor child. And if I have 
neglected you at the table I do not wonder y^ou 
are out of patience. I know how it has hap- 
pened. While you were pouring out the coffee, 
I busied myself in caring for my father and 
Martha, and so forgot you. I do not give this 
as an excuse, but as a reason. I have really no 
excuse, and am ashamed of myself.” 

“Don’t say that, darling,” I cried, “it is I 
who ought to be ashamed for making such an 
ado about a trifle.” 

“It is not a trifle,” he said, “ and now to the 
other points. I dare say I have been careless 
about consulting Martha. But she has always 
been a sort of oracle in our family, and we all 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


173 


look up to her, and she is so much older than 
you. Then as to the secrets. Martha comes to 
my office to help me look over my books. I have 
been careless about my accounts, and she has 
kindly undertaken to attend to them for me.” 
Could not I have done that ? ’ ’ 

No ; why should your little head be troubled 
about money matters ? But to go on. I see 
that it was thoughtless in me not to tell you 
what we were about. But I am greatly per- 
plexed and harassed in many ways. Perhaps 
you would feel better to know all about it. I 
have only kept it from you to spare you all 
the anxiety I could.” 

“Oh, Ernest,” I said, “ought not a wife to 
share in all her husband’s cares? ” 

“No,” he returned; “but I will tell you all 
that is annoying me now. My father was in 
business in our native town, and went on pros- 
perously for many years. Then the tide turned 
— he met with loss after loss, until nothing 
remained but the old homestead, and on that 
there was a mortgage. We concealed the state 
of things from my mother ; her health was 
delicate, and we never let her know a trouble we 
could spare her. Now she has gone, and we 
have found it necessary to sell our old home, and 
to divide and scatter the family. My father’s 
mental distress, when he found others suffering 
from his own losses, threw him into the state in 


174 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


which 3^ou see him now. I have therefore as- 
sumed his debts, and with God’s help, hope in 
time to pay them to the uttermost farthing. 
It will be necessary for us to live economically 
until this is done. There are two pressing cases 
that I am trying to meet at once. This has 
given me a pre-occtipied air, I have no doubt, 
and made you suspect and misunderstand me. 
But now you know the whole, 1113^ darling.” 

I felt my injustice and childish folly very 
keenly, and told him so. 

“ But I think, dear Ernest,” I added, “if 3^011 
will not be hurt at my sa3 T ing so, that 3 r ou have 
led me to it by not letting me share at once in 
3 T our cares. If 3'OU had, at the outset, just told 
me the whole story, 3^011 would have enlisted 1113" 
S3mipathies in your father’s behalf, and in 3 r our 
own. I should have seen the reasonableness of 
3^our breaking up the old home and bringing him 
here, and it would have taken off the edge of my 
bitter, bitter disappointment about my mother.” 
“ I feel very sorry about that,” he said. “ It 
would be a real pleasure to have her here. But 
as things are now, she could not be happy with 
us.” 

“ There is no room,” I put in. 

“No, I am truly sony. And now, my dear 
little wife must have patience with her stupid, 
blundering old husband, and we’ll start together 
once more, fair and square. Don’t wait, next 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


175 


time, till you are so full that you boil over ; the 
moment I annoy you by my inconsiderate ways, 
come right and tell me. ’ ’ 

So then I called myself all the horrid names 
I could think of. 

“ May I ask one thing more, now we are upon 
the subject ? ” I said, at last. “ Why couldn’t 
your sister Helen have come here instead of 
Martha? ” 

He smiled a little. 

“ In the first place, Helen would be perfectly 
crushed if she had the care of father in his pres- 
ent state. She is too young to have such 
responsibility. In the second place, my brother 
John, with whom she has gone to live, has a wife 
who would be quite overwhelmed by my father 
and Martha. She is one of those little tender, 
soft souls, one could crush with one’s fingers. 
Now you are not of that sort ; you have force of 
character enough to enable you to live with 
them, while maintaining your own dignity and 
remaining yourself in spite of circumstances.” 
“I thought you admired Martha above all 
things and wanted me to be exactly like her.” 

‘ ‘ I do admire her, but I do not want you to be 
like anybody but yourself.” 

“ But you nearly killed me by suggesting that 
I should take heed how I talked in your father’s 
presence.” 

“ Yes, dear ; it was very stupid of me, but 


176 S TEPPING HE A VEN WARD. 


my father has a standard of excellence in his 
mind by which he tests every woman ; this 
standard is my mother. She had none of your 
life and fun in her, and perhaps would not have 
appreciated your droll way of putting things any 
better than he and Martha do.” 

I could not help sighing a little when I thought 
what sort of people were watching my every 
word. 

“ There is nothing amiss in my mind,” Ernest 
continued, ‘ ‘ in your gay talk ; but my father 
has his own views as to what constitutes a relig- 
ous character, and cannot understand that real 
earnestness and real, genuine mirthfulness are 
consistent with each other.” 

He had to go now, and we parted as if for a 
week’s separation, this one talk had brought us 
so near to each other. I understand him now 
as I never have done, and feel that he has given 
me as real a proof of his affection by unlocking 
the door of his heart and letting me see its cares, 
as I give him in my wild pranks and caresses 
and foolish speeches. How truly noble it is in 
him to take up his father’s burden in this way ! 
I must contrive to help to lighten it. 


CHAPTER XII. 


November 6. 

Aunty has put me in the way of doing that. 
I could not tell her the whole story, of course, 
but I made her understand that Ernest needed 
money for a generous purpose, and that I wanted 
to help him in it. She said the children needed 
both music and drawing lessons, and that she 
should be delighted if I would take them in 
hand. Aunty does not care a fig for accomplish- 
ments, but I think I am right in accepting her 
offer, as the children ought to learn to sing and 
to play and to draw. Of course I cannot have 
them come here, as Ernest’s father could not 
bear the noise they w r ould make ; besides, I want 
to take him by surprise, and keep the whole 
thing a secret. 

Nov. 14. — I have seen by the way Martha 
draws down the corners of her mouth of late, 
that I am unusually out of favor with her. 
This evening, Ernest, coming home quite late, 
found me lolling back in my chair, idling, 
after a hard day’s work with my little cousins, 

and Martha sewing nervously away at the rate 

(177) 


178 


STEPPING HE A YEN IV A RD. 


of ten knots an hour, which is the first pun I 
ever made. 

“ Why will you sit up and sew at such a rate, 
Martha ? ” he asked. 

She twitched at her thread, broke it, and 
began with a new one before she replied. 

“ I suppose you find it convenient to have a 
whole shirt to your back.” 

I saw then that she was making his shirts ! It 
made me both hot and cold at once. What must 
Ernest think of me ? 

It is plain enough what he thinks of her, for he 
said, quite warmly, “ This is really too kind.” 

What right has she to prowl round among 
Ernest’s things and pry into the state of his 
wardrobe ? If I had not had my time so broken 
up with giving lessons, I should have found out 
that he needed new shirts and set to work on 
them. Though I must own I hate shirt- making. 
I could not help showing that I felt aggrieved. 
Martha defended herself by saying that she knew 
young people would be young people, and would 
gad about, shirts or no shirts. Now it is not her 
fault that she thinks I waste my time gadding 
about, but I am just as angry with her as if it 
was. Oh, why couldn’t I have had Helen, to be 
a pleasant companion and friend to me, instead 
of this old — well, I won’t say what. And really, 
with so much to make me happy, what would 
become of me if I had no trials ? 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


179 


Nov. 15. — To-day Martha had a house- 
cleaning mania, and she dragged me into it by 
representing the sin and misery of those deluded 
mortals who think servants know how to sweep 
and to scrub. I11 spite of my resolution not to 
get under her thumb, I have somehow let her 
rule and reign over me to such an extent that I 
can hardly sit up long enough to write this. 
Does the whole duty of woman consist in keep- 
ing her house distressingly clean and prim ; in 
making and baking and preserving and pickling ; 
in climbing to the top shelves of closets lest 
haply a little dust should lodge there, and getting 
down on her hands and knees to inspect the 
carpet ? The truth is there is not one point of 
sympathy between Martha and myself, not 
one. One would think that our love to Ernest 
would furnish it. But her love aims at the 
abasement of his character and mine at its 
elevation. She thinks I should bow down to 
and worship him, jump up and offer him my 
chair when he comes in, feed him with every 
unwholesome dainty he fancies, and feel myself 
honored by his acceptance of these services. I 
think it is for him to rise and offer me a seat, 
because I am a woman and his wife ; and that 
a silly subservience on my part is degrading to 
him and to myself. And I am afraid I make 
known these sentiments to her in a most un- 
palatable way. 


i8o 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


Nov. 1 8. — Oh, I am so happy that I sing 

for joy ! Dear Ernest has given me such a de- 
lightful surprise ! He says he has persuaded 
James to come and spend his college days here, 
and finally study medicine with him. Dear, 
darling old James ! He is to be here to-morrow. 
He is to have the little hall bed-room fitted up 
for him, and he will be here several years. Next 
to having mother, this is the nicest thing that 
could happen. We love each other so dearly, 
and get along so beautifully together. I w 7 onder 
how he’ll like Martha with her grim ways, and 
Ernest’s father with his melancholy ones. 

Nov. 30. — James has come, and the house 

already seems lighter and cheerier. He is not 
in the least annoyed by Martha or her father, 
and though he is as jovial as the day is long, 
they actually seem to like him. True to her 
theory on the subject, Martha invariably rises at 
his entrance, and offers him her seat ! He pre- 
tends not to see it, and runs to get one for her ! 
Then she takes comfort in seeing him consume 
her good things, since his gobbling them down 
is a sort of tacit tribute to their merits. 

Mrs. Embury was here to-day. She says there 
is not much the matter with Ernest’s father, that 
he has only got the hypo. I don’t know exactly 
what this is, but I believe it is thinking some- 
thing is the matter with you, when there isn’t. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


181 


At anyrate I put it to you, my dear old journal, 
whether it is pleasant to live with people who 
behave in this way ? 

In the first place all he talks about is his 
fancied disease. He gets book after book from 
the office and studies and ponders his case till he 
grows quite yellow. One day he says he has 
found out the seat of his disease to be the liver, 
and changes his diet to meet that view of the 
case. Martha has to do him up in mustard, and 
he takes kindly to blue pills. In a day or two 
he finds his liver is all right, but that his brain 
is all wrong. The mustard goes now to the back 
of his neck, and he takes solemn leave to us all, 
with the assurance that his last hour has come. 
Finding that he survives the night, however, he 
transfers the seat of his disease to the heart, 
spends hours in counting his pulse, refuses to 
take exercise lest he should bring on palpitations, 
and warns us all to prepare to follow him. 
Everybody who comes in has to hear the whole 
story, every one prescribes something, and he 
tries each remedy in turn. These all failing to 
reach his case, he is plunged into ten-fold 
gloom. He complains that God has cast him off 
forever, and that his sins are like the sands of 
the sea for number. I am such a goose that I 
listen to all these varying moods and symptoms 
with the solemn conviction that he is going to 
die immediately ; I bathe his head, and count 


1 82 STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 

liis pulse, and fan him, and take down his dying 
depositions for Ernest’s solace after he has gone. 
And I talk theology to him by the hour, while 
Martha bakes and brews in the kitchen, or 
makes mince pies, after eating which one might 
give him the whole Bible at one dose, without 
the smallest effect. 

To-day I stood by his chair, holding his head 
and whispering such consoling passages as I 
thought might comfort him, when James burst 
in, singing and tossing his cap in the air. 

“Come here, young man, and hear my last 
testimony. I am about to die. The end draws 
near, ’ ’ were the sepulchral words that made him 
bring his song to an abrupt close. 

“ I shall take it very ill of you, sir,” quoth 
James, “ if you go and die before giving me that 
cane you promised 1116.“ 

Who could die decently under such circum- 
stances? The poor man revived immediately, 
but looked a good deal injured. After James 
had gone out, he said : 

“ It is very painful to one who stands on the 
very verge of the eternal world, to see the young 
so thoughtless.” 

“ But James is not thoughtless,” I said, “ It 
is only his merry way.” 

“Daughter Katherine,” he went on, “you 
are very kind to the old man, and you will have 
your reward. But I wish I could feel sure of 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 183 

your state before God. I greatly fear you de- 
ceive yourself, and that the ground of your 
hope is delusive.” 

I felt the blood rush to my face. At first I 
was staggered a good deal. But is a mortal man 
who cannot judge of his own state to decide 
mine? It is true he sees my faults ; anybody 
can, who looks. But he does not see my pray- 
ers, or my tears of shame and sorrow ; he does 
not know how many hasty words I repress ; how 
earnestly I am aiming, all the day long, to do 
right in all the little details of life. He does not 
know that it costs my fastidious nature an ap- 
peal to God every time I kiss his poor old face, 
and that what would be an act of worship in 
him, is an act of self-denial in me. How should 
he? The Christian life is a hidden life, known 
only by the eye that seeth in secret. And I do 
believe this life is mine. 

Up to this time I have contrived to get along 
without calling Ernest’s father by any name. I 
mean now to make myself turn over a new leaf. 

Dkc. 7. — James is my perpetual joy and 

pride. We read and sing together, just as we 
used to do in our old school days. Martha sits 
by, with her work, grimly approving ; for is he 
not a man? And, as if my cup of felicity were 
not full enough, I am to have my dear old pastor 
come here to settle over this church, and I shall 


1 84 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


once more hear his beloved voice in the pulpit. 
Ernest has managed the whole thing. He says 
the state of Dr. C.’s health makes the change 
quite necessary, and that he can avail himself of 
the best surgical advice this city affords, in case 
his old difficulties recur. I rejoice for myself 
and for this church, but mother will miss him 
sadly. 

I am leading a very busy, happy life, only I 
am, perhaps, working a little too hard. What 
with my scholars, the extra amount of house- 
work Martha contrives to get out of me, the 
practicing I must keep up if I am to teach, and 
the many steps I have to take, I have not only 
no idle moments, but none too many for recrea- 
tion. Ernest is so busy himself that he fortu- 
nately does not see what a race I am running. 

Jan. 16, 1838. — The first anniversary of 

our wedding day, and like all days, has had its 
lights and its shades. I thought I would cele- 
brate it in such a way as to give pleasure to 
everybody, and spent a good deal of time in get- 
ting up a little gift for each, from Ernest and 
myself. And I took special pains to have a 
good dinner, particularly for father. Yes, I had 
made up my mind to call him by that sacred 
name for the first time to-day, cost what it may. 
But he shut himself up in his room directly after 
breakfast, and when dinner was ready refused 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 1 8 5 

to come down. This cast a gloom over us all. 
Then Martha was nearly distracted because a 
valuable dish had been broken in the kitchen, 
and could not recover her equanimity at all. 
Worst of all, Ernest, who is not in the least 
sentimental, never said a word about our wed- 
ding day, and didn’t give me a thing ! I have 
kept hoping all day that he would make me 
some little present, no matter how small, but 
now it is too late ; he has gone out to be gone 
all night, probably, and thus ends the day, an 
utter failure. 

I feel a good deal disappointed. Besides, 
when I look back over this, my first year of 
married life, I do not feel satisfied with myself 
at all. I can’t help feeling that I have been 
selfish and unreasonable towards Ernest in a 
great many ways, and as contrary towards 
Martha as if I enjoyed a state of warfare between 
us. And I have felt a good deal of secret con- 
tempt for her father, with his moods and tenses, 
his pill-boxes and his plasters, his feastings and 
his fastings. I do not understand how a Chris- 
tian ca7i make such slow progress as I do, and 
how old faults can hang on so. 

If I had made any real progress, should I not 
be sensible of it ? 

I have been reading over the early part of this 
journal, and when I came to the conversation I 
had with Mrs. Cabot, in which I made a list of 


i86 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


my wants, I was astonished that I could ever 
have had such contemptible ones. Let me think 
what I really and truly most want now. 

First of all, then, if God should speak to me 
at this moment and offer to give just one thing, 
and that alone, I should say wbthout hesitation, 
Love to Thee, O my Master ! 

Next to that, if I could have one thing more, 
I would choose to be a thoroughly unselfish, 
devoted wife. Down in my secret heart I know 
there lurks another wish, which I am ashamed 
of. It is that in some way or other, some right 
way, I could be delivered from Martha and her 
father. I shall never be any better while they 
are here to tempt me ! 

Feb. i. — E rnest spoke to-day of one of 

his patients, a Mrs. Campbell, who is a great 
sufferer, but whom he describes as the happiest, 
most cheerful person he ever met. He rarely 
speaks of his patients. Indeed, he rarely speaks 
of anything. I felt strangely attracted by what 
he said of her, and asked so many questions that 
at last he proposed to take me to see her. I 
caught at the idea very eagerly, and have just 
come home from the visit greatly moved and 
touched. She is confined to her bed, and is 
quite helpless, and at times her sufferings are 
terrible. She received me with a sweet smile, 
however, and led me on to talk more of myself 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


187 


than I ought to have done. I wish Ernest had 
not left me alone with her, so that I should have 
had the restraint of his presence. 

Feb. 14. — I am so fascinated with Mrs. 

Campbell that I cannot help going to see her 
again and again. She seems to me like one 
whose conflict and dismay are all over, and who 
looks on other human beings with an almost 
divine love and pity. To look at life as she 
does, to feel as she does, to have such a personal 
love to Christ as she has, I would willingly go 
through every trial and sorrow. When I told 
her so, she smiled, a little sadly. 

“ Much as you envy me,” she said, “ my faith 
is not yet so strong that I do not shudder at the 
thought of a young enthusiastic girl like you, 
going through all I have done in order to learn 
a few simple lessons which God was willing to 
teach me sooner and without the use of a rod, if 
I had been ready for them.” 

“ But you are so happy now,” I said. 

“Yes, I am happy,” she replied, “and such 
happiness is worth all it costs. If my flesh 
shudders at the remembrance of what I have en- 
dured, my faith sustains God through the whole. 
But tell me a little more about yourself, my dear. 
I should so love to give you a helping hand, if I 
might.” 

“You know,” I began, “dear Mrs. Campbell, 


i88 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


that there are some trials that cannot do us any 
good. They only call out all there is in us that 
is unlovely and severe.” 

‘ ‘ I don't know of any such trials,” she replied. 
“Suppose you had to live with people who 
were perfectly uncongenial ; who misunderstood 
you, and who were always getting into your way 
as stumbling blocks ? ’ ’ 

“ If I were living with them and they made 
me unhappy, I would ask God to relieve me of 
this trial if He thought it best. If He did not 
think it best, I would then try to find out the 
reason. He might have two reasons. One 
would be the good they might do me. The 
other the good I might do them.” 

“But in the case I was supposing, neither 
party can be of the least use to the other. ’ ’ 

“You forget perhaps the indirect good one 
may gain by living with uncongenial, tempting 
persons. First, such people do good by the very 
self-denial and self-control their mere presence 
demands. Then, their making one’s home less 
home-like and perfect than it would be in their 
absence, may help to render our real home in 
heaven more attractive.” 

“ But suppose one cannot exercise self-control, 
and is always flying out and flaring up ? ” I 
objected. 

‘ ‘ I should say that a Christian who was always 
doing that,” she replied, gravely, “ was in press- 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


189 


ing need of just the trial God sent when he shut 
him up to such a life of hourly temptation. We 
only know ourselves and what we really are, 
when the force of circumstances brings us out.” 

“ It is very mortifying and painful to find how 
weak one is.” 

“That is true. But our mortifications are 
some of God’s best physicians, and do much 
toward healing our pride and self-conceit.” 

“ Do you really think, then, that God deliber- 
ately appoints to some of his children a lot where 
their worst passions are excited, with a desire to 
bring good out of this seeming evil ? Why I have 
always supposed the best thing that could happen 
to me, for instance, would be to have a home 
exactly to my mind ; a home where all were for- 
bearing, loving and good-tempered, a sort of 
little heaven below.” 

“ If you have not such a home, my dear, are 
you sure it is not partly your own fault ? ’ ’ 

“ Of course it is my own fault. Because I am 
very quick-tempered I want to live with good- 
tempered people.” 

“That is very benevolent in you,” she said, 
archly. I colored, but went on. 

“Oh, I know I am selfish. And therefore I 
want to live with those who are not so. I want 
to live with persons to whom I can look for an 
example, and who will constantly stimulate me 
to something higher.” 


190 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ But if God chooses quite another lot for you, 
you may be sure that He sees that you need 
something totally different from what you want. 
You said just now that you would gladly go 
through any trial in order to attain a personal 
love to Christ that should become the ruling 
principle of your life. Now as soon as God sees 
this desire in you, is He not kind, is He not 
wise, in appointing such trials as He knows will 
lead to this end ? ” 

I meditated long before I answered. Was 
God really asking me not merely to let Martha 
and her father live with me on sufferance, but to 
rejoice that He had seen fit to let them harass 
and embitter my domestic life ? 

“I thank you for the suggestion,” I said, at 
last. 

“ I want to say one thing more,” Mrs. Camp- 
bell resumed, after another pause. “ We look at 
our fellow-men too much from the standpoint of 
our own prejudices. They may be wrong, they 
may have their faults and foibles, they may call 
out all that is meanest and most hateful in us. 
But they are not all wrong ; they have their 
virtues, and when they excite our bad passions 
by their own, they may be as ashamed and sorry 
as we are irritated. And I think some of the 
best, most contrite, most useful of men and 
women, whose prayers prevail with God and 
bring down blessings into the homes in which 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 1 9 1 

they dwell, often possess unlovely traits that 
furnish them with their best discipline. The 
very fact that they are ashamed of themselves 
drives them to God ; they feel safe in His pres- 
ence, and while they lie in the very dust of self- 
confusion at His feet they are dear to Him and 
have power with Him.” 

“ That is a comforting word, and I thank you 
for it.” I said. My heart was full, and I 
longed to stay and hear her talk on. But I had 
already exhausted her strength. On the way 
home I felt as I suppose people do, when they 
have caught a basket full of fish. I alwa3^s am 
delighted to catch a new idea, I thought I would 
get all the benefit out of Martha and her father, 
and as I went down to tea, after taking off my 
things, felt like a holy martyr who had as good 
as won a crown. 

I found, however, that the butter was horrible. 
Martha had insisted that she alone was capable 
of selecting that article, and had ordered a quan- 
tity from her own village, which I could not eat 
myself, and was ashamed to have on my table. 
I pushed back my plate in disgust. 

“ I hope, Martha, that you have not ordered 
much of this odious stuff ! ” I cried. 

Martha replied, that it was of the very first 
quality, and appealed to her father and Ernest, 
who both agreed with her, which I thought very 
unkind and unjust. I rushed into a hot debate 


192 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


on the subject, during which Ernest maintained 
that ominous silence that indicates his not being 
pleased, and that irritated and led me on. I 
would far rather he should say, “ Katy, you are 
behaving like a child, and I wish you would stop 
talking. ” 

“ Martha,” I said, “ you will persist that the 
butter is good, because you ordered it. If you 
will only own that, I won’t say another word.” 

“ I can' t say it,” she returned. “ Mrs. Jones’ 
butter is invariably good. I never heard it 
found fault with before. The trouble is you are 
so hard to please.” 

“No, I am not. And you can’t convince me 
that if the buttermilk is not perfectly worked 
out, the butter could be fit to eat.” 

This speech I felt to be a masterpiece. It was 
time to let her know how learned I was on the 
subject of butter, though I wasn’t brought up 
to make it or see it made. 

But here Ernest put in a little oil. 

‘ ‘ I think you are both right, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Mrs. 
Jones makes good butter, but just this once she 
failed. I dare say it won’t happen again, and 
meanwhile this can be used for making seed- 
cakes, and we can get a new supply.” 

This was his masterpiece ! A whole firkin of 
butter made up into seed-cakes ! 

Martha turned to encounter him on that head, 
and I slipped off to my room to look, with a 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


193 


miserable sense of disappointment, at my folly 
and weakness in making so much ado about 
nothing. I find it hard to believe that it can do 
me good to have people live with me who like 
rancid butter, and who disagree with me in 
everything else. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


March i. 

Aunty sent for us all to dine with her to-day 
to celebrate Eucy’s fifteenth birthday. Ever 
since Lucy behaved so heroically in regard to 
little Emma, really saving her life, Ernest says, 
aunty seems to feel that she cannot do enough 
for her. The child has taken the most unac- 
countable fancy to me, strangely enough, and 
when we got there she came to meet me with 
something like cordiality. 

‘ ‘ Mamma permits me to be the bearer of agree- 
able news,” she said, “ because this is my birth- 
day. A friend, of whom you are very fond, has 
just arrived, and is impatient to embrace you.” 

“To embrace me?” I cried. “You foolish 
child ! ’ ’ And the next moment I found myself 
in my mother’s arms ! 

The despised Lucy had been the means of * 
giving me this pleasure. It seems that aunty 
had told her she should choose her own birthday 
treat, and that, after solemn meditation, she had 
decided that to see dear mother again would be 
the most agreeable thing she could think of. I 
have never told you, dear journal, why I did not 

(194) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


x 95 


go home last summer, and never shall. If you 
choose to fancy that I couldn’t afford it, you can ! 

Well! wasn’t it nice to see mother, and to read in 
her dear, loving face that she was satisfied with her 
poor, wayward Katy, and fond of her as ever! I 
only longed for Ernest’s coming, that she might 
see us together, and see how he loved me. 

He came ; I rushed out to meet him and 
dragged him in. But it seemed as if he had 
grown stupid and awkward. All through the 
dinner I watched for one of those loving glances 
which should proclaim to mother the good under- 
standing between us, but watched in vain. 

‘ ‘ It will come by-and-by, ’ ’ I thought. ‘ ‘When 
we get by ourselves mother w T ill see how fond of 
me he is.” But “by-and-by” it was just the 
same. I was pre-occupied, and mother asked 
me if I were well. It was all very foolish I dare 
say, and yet I did want to have her know that 
with all my faults he still loves me. Then, be- 
sides this disappointment, I have to reproach 
myself for misunderstanding poor Eucy as I have 
done. Because she was not all fire and fury like 
myself, I need not have assumed that she had 
no heart. It is just like me ; I hope I shall 
never be so severe in my judgment again. 

April 30. — Mother has just gone. Her 

visit has done me a world of good. She found 
out something to like in father at once, and then 


196 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


something good in Martha. She says father’s 
sufferings are real, not fancied ; that his error is 
not knowing where to locate his disease, and is 
starving one week and over-eating the next. 
She charged me not to lay up future misery 
for myself by misjudging him now, and to treat 
him as a daughter ought without the smallest 
regard to his appreciation of it. Then as to 
Martha, she declares that I have no idea how 
much she does to reduce our expenses, to keep 
the house in order and relieve us from care. 
“But, mother,” I said, “did you notice what 
horrid butter we have ? And it is all her doing.” 
“But the butter won’t last forever,” she re- 
plied. “ Don’t make yourself miserable about 

# 

such a trifle. For my part, it is a great relief to 
me to know that with your delicate health you 
have this tower of strength to lean on.” 

“But my health is not delicate, mother.” 
“You certainly look pale and thin.” 

“Oh, well,” I said, whereupon she fell to 
giving me all sorts of advice about getting up on 
step-ladders, and climbing on chairs, and sewing 
too much and all that. 

June 15. — The weather, or something, 

makes me rather languid and stupid. I begin to 
think that Martha is not an entire nuisance in 
the house. I have just been to see Mrs. Camp- 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


197 


bell. I11 answer to my routine of lamentations, 
she took up a book and read me what was called, 
as nearly as I can remember, “ Four steps that 
lead to peace.” 

“Be desirous of doing the will of another, 
rather than thine own.” 

‘ ‘ Choose always to have less, rather than more. ’ ’ 
“Seek always the lowest place, and to be in- 
ferior to every one.” 

“ Wish always, and pray, that the will of God 
may be wholly fulfilled in thee.” 

I was much struck with these directions ; but 
I said, despondently: “If peace can only be 

found at the end of such hard roads, I am sure 
I shall always be miserable.” 

“ Are 3^011 miserable now ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, just now I am. I do not mean that I 
have no happiness ; I mean that I am in a dis- 
heartened mood, w 7 eary of going round and round 
in circles, committing the same sins, uttering the 
same confessions, and making no advance.” 

“ My dear,” she said, after a time, “ have you 
a perfectly distinct, settled view of what Christ 
is to the human soul ? ” 

“ I do not know. I understand, of course, 
more or less perfectly, that my salvation depends 
on Him alone; is His gift.” 

“ But do you see, with equal clearness, that 
your sanctification must be as fully His gift, as 
your salvation is ? ” 


198 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ No, ” I said, after a little thought. ‘ ‘ I have 
had a feeling that He has done His part, and 
now I must do mine.” 

“My dear,” she said, with much tenderness 
and feeling, “ then the first thing you have to do 
is to learn Christ.” 

‘ ‘ But how ? ’ ’ 

“ On your knees, my child, on your knees ! ” 
She was tired, and I came away ; and I have 
indeed been on my knees. 

July i. — I think that I do begin, dimly 

it is true, but really, to understand that this 
terrible work which I was trying to do myself, 
is Christ's work, and must be done and will be 
done by Him. I take some pleasure in the 
thought, and wonder why it has all this time 
been hidden from me, especially after what Dr. 
C. said in his letter. But I get hold of this idea 
in a misty, unsatisfactory way. If Christ is to 
do all, what am I to do ? And have I not been 
told, over and over again, that the Christian life 
is one of conflict, and that I am to fight like a 
good soldier ? 

August 5. — Dr. Cabot has come just as 

I need him most. I long for one of those good 
talks with him which always used to strengthen 
me so. I feel a perfect weight of depression that 
makes me a burden to myself and to poor 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


199 


Krnest, who, after visiting sick people all day, 
needs to come home to a cheerful wife. But he 
comforts me with the assurance that this is 
merely physical despondency, and that I shall 
get over it by and by. How kind, how even 
tender he is ! My heart is getting all it wants 
from him, only I am too stupid to enjoy him as 
I ought. Father, too, talks far less about his 
own bad feelings, and seems greatly concerned 
at mine. As to Martha, I have done trying to 
get sympathy or love from her. She cannot help 
it, I suppose, but she is very hard and dry 
towards me, and I feel such a longing to throw 
myself on her mercy, and to have one little smile 
to assure me that she has forgiven me for being 
Ernest’s wife, and so different from what she 
would have chosen for him. 

Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Mortimer : — 

October 4, 1838. 

My Dkar Katy’s Mother : — You will rejoice 
with us when I tell you that we are the happy 
parents of a very fine little boy. My dearest 
wife sends “an ocean of love’’ to you, and says 
she will write herself to-morrow. That I shall 
not be very likely to allow, as you will imagine. 
She is doing extremely well, and we have every- 
thing to be grateful for. 

Your affectionate son, 

J. E. Elliott. - 


200 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Mrs. Crofton to Mrs. Mortimer : 

I am sure, my dear sister, that the doctor has 
not written you more than five lines about the 
great event which has made such a stir in our 
domestic circle. So I must try to supply the 
details you will want to hear. ... I need 
not add that our darling Katy behaved nobly. 
Her self-forgetfulness and consideration for others 
was really beautiful throughout the whole scene. 
The doctor may well be proud of her, and I took 
care to tell him so in presence of that dreadful 
sister of his. I never met so angular, so uncom- 
promising a person as she is in all my life. She 
does not understand Katy, and never can, and I 
find it hard to realize that living wdth such a 
person can furnish a wholesome discipline, which 
is even more desirable than the most delightful 
home. And yet I not only know that this is 
true in the abstract, but I see that it is so in the 
actual fact. Katy is acquiring both self-control 
and patience, and her Christian character is 
developing in a way that amazes me. I cannot 
but hope that God will, in time, deliver her from 
this trial ; indeed, I feel sure that when it has 
done its beneficent work He will do so. Martha 
Elliott is a good woman, but her goodness is 
without grace or beauty. She takes excellent 
care of Katy, keeps her looking as if she had 
just come out of a band-box, as the saying is, 
and always has her room in perfect order. But 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN WA RD. 


201 


one misses the loving word, the re-assuring smile, 
the delicate, thoughtful little forbearance, that 
ought to adorn every sick room, and light it up 
with genuine sunshine. There is one comfort 
about it, however, and that is, that I can spoil 
dear Katy to my heart’s content. 

As to the baby, he is a fine little fellow, and 
his mother is so happy in him that she can afford 
to do without some other pleasures. I shall 
write again in a few days. Meanwhile, you may 
rest assured that I love your Katy almost as well 
as you do, and shall be with her most of the time 
till she is quite herself again. 

James to his mother : 

Of course there never was such a baby before 
on the face of the earth. Katy is so nearly wild 
with joy, that you can’t get her to eat or sleep 
or do any of the proper things that her charming 
sister-in-law thinks becoming under the circum- 
stances. You never saw anything so pretty in 
your life, as she is now. I hope the doctor is as 
much in love with her as I am. He is the best 
fellow in the world, and Katy is just the wife 
for him. 

Nov. 4. — My darling baby is a month old 

to-day. I never saw such a splendid child. I 
love him so that I lie awake nights to watch him. 
Martha says, in her dry way, that I had better 


202 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


show my love by sleeping and eating for him, 
and Krnest says I shall, as soon as I get stronger. 
But I don’t get strong, and that discourages me. 

Nov. 26. — I begin to feel rather more 

like myself, and as if I could write -with less 
labor. I have had in these past few weeks such 
a revelation of suffering, and such a revelation 
of joy, as mortal mind can hardly conceive of. 
The world I live in now is a new world ; a world 
full of suffering that leads to unutterable felicity. 
Oh, this precious, precious baby ! How can I 
thank God enough for giving him to me ! 

I see now why He has put some thorns into 
my domestic life ; but for them I should be too 
happy to live. It does not seem just the 
moment to complain, and yet, as I can speak to 
no one, it is a relief, a great relief, to write about 
my trials. During my whole sickness, Martha 
has been so hard, .so cold, so unsympathizing 
that sometimes it has seemed as if my cup of 
trial could not hold another drop. She routed 
me out of bed when I was so languid that every- 
thing seemed a burden, and wdien sitting up 
made me faint away. I heard her say to herself, 
that I had no constitution and had no business 
to get married. The worst of all is that during 
that dreadful night before baby came, she kept 
asking Ernest to lie down and rest, and was sure 
he would kill himself, and all that, while she had 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


203 


not one word of pity for me. But, 0I1, why need 
I let this rankle in my heart ! Why can not I 
turn my thoughts entirely to my darling baby, 
my dear husband, and all the other sources of 
joy that make my home a happy one in spite of 
this one discomfort ! I hope I am learning some 
useful lessons from my joys and from my trials, 
and that both w r ill serve to make me in earnest, 
and to keep me so. 

Dec. 4. — We have had a great time about 

poor baby’s name. I expected to call him Ray- 
mond, for my own dear father, as a matter of 
course. It seemed a small gratification for 
mother and her lonesomeness. Dear mother ! 
How little I have known, all these years, what I 
cost her ! But it seems there has been a Jotham 
in the family ever since the memory of man, 
each eldest son handing down his father’s name 
to the next in descent, and Ernest’s real name is 
Jotham Ernest — of all the extraordinary combin- 
ations ! His mother would add the latter name 
in spite of everything. Ernest behaved very 
well through the whole affair, and said he had 
no feeling about it at all. But he was so gratified 
when I decided to keep up the family custom 
that I felt rewarded for the sacrifice. 

Father is in one of his gloomiest moods. As I 
sat caressing baby to-day, he said to me : 

“ Daughter Katherine, I trust you make it a 


204 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


subject of prayer to God that you may be kept 
from idolatry.” 

“No, father,” I returned, “ I never do. An 
idol is something one puts in God’s place, and I 
don’t put baby there.” 

He shook his head, and said the heart is 
deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. 

“ I have heard mother say that we might love 
an earthly object as much as we pleased, if we 
only love God better.” I might have added, 
but of course I didn’t, that I prayed every day 
that I might love Ernest and baby better and 
better. Poor father seemed puzzled and troubled 
by what I did say, and after musing awhile, 
went on thus . 

“ The Almighty is a great and terrible Being. 
He cannot bear a rival ; He will have the whole 
heart or none of it. When I see a young woman 
so absorbed in a created being as you are in that 
infant, and in your other friends, I tremble for 
you, I tremble for you ! ” 

“But, father,” I persisted, “God gave me 
this child, and He gave me my heart, just as 
it is.” 

“Yes ; and that heart needs renewing.” 

“I hope it is renewed,” I replied. “But I 
know there is a great work still to be done in it. 
And the more effectually it is done the more 
loving I shall grow. Don’t you see, father? 
Don’t you see that the more Christ-like I be- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


205 


come, the more I shall be filled with love for 
every living thing ?” 

He shook his head, but pondered long, as he 
always does, on whatever he considers audacious. 
As for me, I am vexed with my presumption in 
disputing with him, and am sure, too, that I was 
trying to show off what little wisdom I have 
picked up. Besides, my mountain does not 
stand so strong as it did. Perhaps I am making 
idols out of Ernest and the baby. 

Jan. 16, 1839. — This is our second wed- 
ding-day. I did not expect much from it, after 
last year’s failure. Father was very gloomy at 
breakfast, and retired to his room directly after 
it. No one could get in to make his bed, and he 
would not come down to dinner. I wonder 
Ernest lets him go on so. But his rule seems to 
be to let everybody have their own way. He 
certainly lets me have mine. After dinner he 
gave me a book I have been wanting for some 
time, and had asked him for — The Imitation of 
Christ. Ever since that day at Mrs. Campbell’s 
I have felt that I should like it, though I did 
think, in old times, that it preached too hard a 
doctrine. I read aloud to him the “Four steps 
to peace he said they were admirable, and 
then took it from me and began reading to him- 
self, here and there. I felt the precious moments 
when I had got him all to myself were passing 


206 


.S' TEPPING HE A VEN WA PD. 


away, and was becoming quite out of patience 
with him when the words, “ Constantly seek to 
have less, rather than more,” flashed into my 
mind. I suppose this direction had reference to 
worldly goods, but I despise money, and despise 
people who love it. The riches I crave are not 
silver and gold, but my husband’s love and 
esteem. And of these must I desire to have less 
rather than more ? I puzzled myself over this 
question in vain, but when I silently prayed to 
be satisfied with just what God chose to give me 
of the wealth I crave, yes, hunger and thirst 
for, I certainly felt a sweet content, for the time 
at least, that was quite resting and quieting. 
And just as I had reached that acquiescent mood, 
Ernest threw down his book, and came and 
caught me in his arms. 

“ I thank God,” he said, “ my precious wife, 
that I married you this day. The wisest thing 
I ever did, was when I fell in love with you and 
made a fool of myself ! ” 

What a speech for my silent old darling to 
make ! Whenever he says and does a thing out 
of character, and takes me all by surprise, how 
delightful he is ! Now the world is a beautiful 
world, and so is everybody in it. I met Martha 
on the stairs after Ernest had gone, and caught 
her and kissed her. She looked perfectly aston- 
ished. 

“What spirits the child has!” I heard her 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


207 


whisper to herself : “no sooner down than up 
again. ’ ’ 

And she sighed. Can it be that under that 
stern and hard crust, there lie hidden affections 
and perhaps hidden sorrows ? 

I ran back and asked, as kindly as I could, 
“ What makes you sigh, Martha? Is anything 
troubling you ? Have I done anything to annoy 
you ? ’ ’ 

“You do the best you can,” she said, and 
pushed past me to her own room. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


January 30. 

Who would have thought I would have any- 
thing more to do with poor Susan Green ? Dr. 
Cabot came to see me to-day, and told me the 
strangest thing! It seems that the nurse who per- 
formed the last offices for her was taken sick about 
six months ago, and that Dr. Cabot visited her 
from time to time. Her physician said she needed 
nothing but rest and good, nourishing food, to 
restore her strength, }^et she did not improve at 
all, and at last it came out that she was not 
taking the food the doctor ordered, because she 
could not afford to do so, having lost what little 
money she had contrived to save. Dr. Cabot, 
on learning this, gave her enough out of Susan’s 
legacy to meet her case, and in doing so told her 
about that extraordinary will. The nurse then 
assured him that when she reached Susan’s room 
and found the state that she was in, and that I 
was praying with her, she had remained waiting 
in silence, fearing to interrupt me. She saw me 
faint, and sprang forward just in time to catch 
me and keep me from falling. 

“I take great pleasure, therefore,” Dr. Cabot 

(208) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


209 


continued, “in making over Susan’s little prop- 
erty to you, to whom it belongs ; and I cannot 
help congratulating you that you have had the 
honor and the privilege of perhaps leading that 
poor, benighted soul to Christ, even at the 
eleventh hour.” 

“ Oh, Dr. Cabot ! ” I cried, “what a relief it 
is to hear you say that ! For I have always 
reproached myself for the cowardice that made 
me afraid to speak to her of her Saviour. It 
takes less courage to speak to God than to man.” 

“It is my belief,” replied Dr. Cabot, “that 
every pra}^er offered in the name of Jesus is sure 
to have its answer. Every such prayer is 
dictated by the Holy Spirit, and therefore finds 
acceptance with God ; and if your cry for mercy 
on poor Susan’s soul did not prevail with Him 
in her behalf, as we may hope it did, then He 
has answered it in some other way.” 

These words impressed me very much. To 
think that every one of my poor prayers is 
answered ! Every one ! 

Dr. Cabot then returned to the subject of 
Susan’s will, and in spite of all I could say to 
the contrary, insisted that he had no legal right 
to this money, and that I had. He said he 
hoped that it would help to relieve us from some 
of the petty economies now rendered necessary 
by Ernest’s struggle to meet his father’s liabili- 
ties. Instantly my idol was rudely thrown down 


210 


5 TEPPING IPE A VEN WA RD. 


from his pedestal. How could he reveal to Dr. 
Cabot a secret he had pretended it cost him so 
much to confide in me, his wife? I could hardly 
restrain tears of shame and vexation, but did 
control myself so far as to say that I would 
sooner die than appropriate Susan’s hard earn- 
ings for such a purpose, and that I should use it 
for the poor, as I was sure he had done. He 
then advised me to invest the principal, and use 
the interest from year to year, as occasions pre- 
sented themselves. So I shall have more than 
a hundred dollars to give awaj^ each year, as long 
as I live ! How perfectly delightful. I can 
hardly conceive of anything that could give me 
so much pleasure ! Poor old Susan ! Plow many 
hearts she shall cause to sing for joy ! 

Feb. 25. — Things have not gone on well 

of late. Dearly as I love Ernest, he has lowered 
himself in my eye by telling that to Dr. Cabot. 
It would have been far nobler to be silent con- 
cerning his sacrifices ; and he certainly grows 
harder, graver, sterner, every day. He is all 
shut up within himself, and I am growing afraid 
of him. It must be that he is bitterly disap- 
pointed in me, and takes refuge in this awful 
silence. Oh, if I could only please him, and 
could know that I pleased him, how different my 
life would be ! 

Baby does not seem well. I have often plumed 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


211 


myself on the thought that having a doctor for 
his father would be such an advantage to him, 
as he would be ready to attack the first symp- 
toms of disease. But Ernest hardly listens to 
me when I express anxiety about this or that, 
and if I ask a question he replies, “Oh, you 
know better than I do. Mothers know by 
instinct how to manage babies.” But I do not 
know by instinct, or in any other way, and I 
often wish that the time I spent over my music 
had been spent in learning how to meet all the 
little emergencies that are constantly arising 
since baby came. How I used to laugh in my 
sleeve at those anxious mothers who lived near 
us and always seemed to be in hot water. Martha 
will take baby when I have other things to 
attend to, and she keeps him every Sunday 
afternoon that I may go to church, but she 
knows no more about his physical training than 
I do. If my dear mother were only here ! I 
feel a good deal worn out. What with the care 
of baby, who is restless at night, and with whom 
I walk about lest he should keep Ernest awake, 
the depressing influence of father’s presence, 
Martha’s disdain, and Ernest’s keeping so aloof 
from me, life seems to me little better than a 
burden that I have not strength to carry and 
would gladly lay down. 

March 3. — If it were not for James I 


212 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


believe I should sink. He is so kind and affec- 
tionate, so ready to fill up the gaps Ernest leaves 
empty, and is so sunshiny and gay that I cannot 
be entirely sad. Baby, too, is a precious treas- 
ure ; it would be wicked to cloud his little life 
with my depression. I try to look at him always 
with a smiling face, for he already distinguishes 
between a cheerful and a sad countenance. 

I am sure that there is something in Christ’s 
gospel that would soothe and sustain me amid 
these varied trials, if I only knew what it is, and 
how to put forth my hand and take it. But as 
it is I feel very desolate. Ernest often congrat- 
ulates me on having had such a good night’s 
rest, when I have been up and down every hour 
with baby, half asleep and frozen and exhausted. 
But he shall sleep at any rate. 

April 5. — The first rays of spring make 

me more languid than ever. Martha cannot be 
made to understand that nursing such a large, 
voracious baby, losing sleep, and confinement 
within doors, are enough to account for this. 
She is constantly speaking in terms of praise of 
those who keep up even when they do feel a 
little out of sorts, and says she always does. I11 
the evening, after baby gets to sleep, I feel fit 
for nothing but to lie on the sofa, dozing ; but 
she sees in this only a lazy habit, which ought 
not to be tolerated, and is constantly devising 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


213 


ways to rouse and set me to work. If I had 
more leisure for reading, meditation and prayer, 
I might still be happy. But all the morning I 
must have baby till he takes a nap, and as soon 
as he gets to sleep I must put my room in order, 
and by that time all the best part of the day is 
gone. And at night I am so tired that I can 
hardly feel anything but my weariness. That, 
too, is my only chance of seeing Ernest, and if 
I lock my door and fall upon my knees, I keep 
listening for his step, ready to spring to welcome 
him should he come. This is wrong, I know, but 
how can I live without one loving word from 
him, and every day I am hoping it will come. 

May 2. — Aunty was here to-day. I had 

not seen her for some weeks. She exclaimed at 
my looks in a tone that seemed to upbraid Ernest 
and Martha, though of course she did not mean 
to do that. 

“You are not fit to have the whole care of 
that great boy at night,” said she, “and you 
ought to begin to feed him, both for his sake 
and your own.” 

“I am willing to take the child at night,” 
Martha said, a little stiffly. “But I supposed 
his mother prefered to keep him herself. 

“And so I do,” I cried. “ I should be per- 
fectly miserable if I had to give him up just as 
he is getting teeth, and so wakeful.” 


214 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ What are you taking to keep up your 
strength, dear?” asked aunty. 

“ Nothing in particular,” I said. 

“Very well, it is time the doctor looked after 
that,” she cried. “ It really never will do to let 
you run down in this way. Let me look at baby. 
Why, my child, his gums need lancing.” 

“ So I have told Ernest half a dozen times,” I 
declared. “But he is always in a hurry, and 
says another time will do.” 

“ I hope baby won’t have convulsions while he 
is waiting for that other time,” said aunty, look- 
ing almost savagely at Martha. I never saw 
aunty so nearly out of humor. 

At dinner Martha began. 

“I think, brother, the baby needs attention. 
Mrs. Crofton has been here and says so. And she 
seems to find Katherine run down. I am sure if 
I had known it I should have taken her in hand 
and built her up. But she did not complain.” 
“She never complains,” father here put in, 
calling all the blood I had into my face, my heart 
so leaped for joy at his kind word. 

Ernest looked at me and caught the illumina- 
tion of my face. 

“You look well, dear,” he said. “But if 
you do not feel so you ought to tell us. As to 
baby, I will attend to him directly.” 

So Martha’s one word prevailed where my 
twenty fell to the ground. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


215 


Baby is much relieved, and has fallen into a 
sweet sleep and I have had time to carry my 
tired, oppressed heart to my compassionate Sa- 
viour, and to tell Him what I cannot utter to 
any human ear. How strange it is that when, 
through many years of leisure and strength, 
prayer was only a task, it is now my chief solace 
if I can only snatch time for it. 

Mrs. Embury has a little daughter. How glad 
I am for her ! She is going to give it my name ! 
That is a real pleasure. 

July 4. — Baby is nine months old to-day, 

and in spite of everything is bright and well. 
I have come home to mother. Ernest waked up 
at last to see that something must be done, and 
when he is awake he is very wide awake. So 
he brought me home. Dear mother is perfectly 
delighted, only she will make an ado about my 
health. But I feel a good deal better, and think 
I shall get nicely rested here. How pleasant it 
is to feel myself watched by friendly eyes, my 
faults excused and forgiven, and what is best in 
me called out. I have been writing to Ernest, 
and have told him honestly, how annoyed and 
pained I was at learning that he had told his 
secret to Dr. Cabot. 

July 12. — Ernest writes that he has had 

110 communication with Dr. Cabot or any one 


216 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


else on a subject, that touching his father’s 
honor as it does, he regards as a sacred one. 

“You say, dear,’’ he said, “you often say 
that I do not understand you. Are you sure 
that you understand me ? ’ ’ 

Of course I don’t. How can I? How can I 
reconcile his marrying me and professing to do 
it with delight, with his indifference to my so- 
ciety, his reserve, his carelessness about my 
health ? 

But his letters are very kind, and really 
warmer than he is. I can hardly wait for them, 
and then, though my pride bids me to be as 
reticent as he is my heart runs away with me, 
and I pour out upon him such floods of affection 
that I am sure he is half drowned. 

Mother says baby is splendid. 

August i. — When I took leave of Ernest 

I was glad to get away. I thought he would 
perhaps find after I was gone that he missed 
something out of his life and would welcome me 
home with a little of his old love. But I did not 
dream that he would not find it easy to do with- 
out me till summer was over, and when, this 
morning, he came suddenly upon us, carpet-bag 
in hand, I could do nothing but cry in his arms 
like a tired child. 

And now I had the silly 7 " triumph of having 
mother see that he loved me ! 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 2 1 7 

“How could you get away?” I asked at last. 
“And what made you come? And how long 
can you stay ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I could get away because I would , ’ ’ he re- 
plied. “ And I came because I wanted to come. 
And I can stay three da3'S.” 

Three days of Ernest all to myself ! 

August 5. — He has gone, but he has left 

behind him a happy wife and the memory of 
three happy days. 

After the first joy of our meeting was over, 
we had time for just such nice long talks as I 
delight in. Ernest began by upbraiding me a 
little for my injustice in fancying he had betray- 
ed his father to Dr. Cabot. 

“That is not all,” I interrupted, “I even 
thought you had made a boast of the sacrifices 
you were making.” 

“That explains your coldness,” he returned. 

“My coldness! Of all the ridiculous things 
in the world ! ” I cried. 

“ You were cold, for you, and I felt it. Don’t 
you know that we undemonstrative men pre- 
fer loving winsome little women like you, 
just because you are our own opposites? 
And when the pet kitten turns into a cat with 
claws — ’ ’ 

“Now, Ernest, that is really too bad! To 
compare me to a cat ! ’ ’ 


218 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


“You certainly did say some sharp things to 
me about that time.” 

“Did I, really? Oh, Ernest, how could I?” 
“ And it was at a moment when I particularly 
needed your help. But do not let us dwell upon 
it. We love each other ; we are both trying to 
do right in all the details of life. I do not think 
we shall ever get very far apart.” 

“But, Ernest — tell me — are you very, very 
much disappointed in me? ” 

“ Disappointed ? Why, Katy ! ” 

“Then what did make you seem so indiffer- 
ent? What made you so slow to observe how 
miserably I was, as to health ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Did I seem indifferent ? I am sure I never 
loved you better. As to your health, I am 
ashamed of myself. I ought to have seen how 
feeble you were. But the truth is, I was de- 
ceived by 3 r our bright ways with bab}r. For 
him ) 7 ou were all smiles and gayety.” 

“That was from principle,” I said, and felt a 
good deal elated as I made the announcement. 

Fie fell into a fit of musing, and none of my 
usual devices for rousing him had any effect. I 
pulled his hair and his ears, and shook him, but 
he remained unmoved. 

At last he began again. 

“Perhaps I owe it to you, dear, to tell you 
that when I brought my father and sister home 
to live with us, I did not dream how trying a 


STEPPING HE A VEN WARD. 2 1 9 

thing it would be to you. I did not know that 
he was a confirmed invalid, or that she would 
prove to possess a nature so entirely antagonistic 
to yours. I thought my father would interest 
himself in reading, visiting, etc., as he used to 
do. And I thought Martha’s judgment would 
be of service to } r ou, while her household skill 
would relieve you of some care. But the whole 
thing has proved a failure. I am harassed by 
the sight of my father, sitting there in his corner 
so penetrated with gloom ; I reproach myself for 
it, and I almost dread coming home. When a man 
has been all day encompassed with sounds and 
sights of suffering, he naturally longs for cheerful 
faces and cheerful voices in his own house. Then 
Martha’s pertinacious — I won’t say hostility to 
my little wife — what shall I call it ? ” 

“It is only want of sympathy. She is too 
really good to be hostile to any one.” 

‘ 1 Thank you, my darling, ’ ’ he said , “ I believe 
you do her justice.” 

‘ ‘ I am afraid I have not been so forbearing with 
her as I ought,” I said. “ But, 0I1, Ernest, it is 
because I have been jealous of her all along ! ” 
“ That is really too absurd.” 

“You have certainly treated her with more 
deference than you have me. You looked up to 
her and looked down upon me. At least it 
seemed so.” 

“My dear child, you have misunderstood the 


220 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


whole thing. I gave Martha just what she 
wanted most ; she likes to be looked up to. And 
I gave you what I thought you wanted most 
— my tenderest love. And I expected that I 
should have your sympathy amid the trials with 
which I am burdened, and that with your strong 
nature I might look to you to help me bear them. 
I know you have the worst of it, dear child, but 
then you have twice my strength. I believe 
women most always have more than men.” 

“I have, indeed, misunderstood 3^011. I 
thought you liked to have them here, and that 
Martha’s not fancying me influenced > 7 ou against 
me. But now I know just what you want of 
me, and I can give it, darling.” 

After this all our cloud melted away. I onty 
long to go home and show Ernest that he shall 
have one cheerful face about him, and have one 
cheerful voice. 

August 12. — I have had a long letter 

from Ernest to-day. He says he hopes he has 
not been selfish and unkind in speaking of his 
father and sister as he has done, because he 
truly loves and honors them both, and wants me 
to do so, if I can. His father had called them 
up twice to see him die and to receive his last 
messages. This always happens when poor Er- 
nest has been up all the previous night ; there 
seems a fatality about it. 


CHAPTER XV. 


October 4. 

Home again, and with my dear Ernest de- 
lighted to see me. Baby is a year old to-day, 
and, as usual, father, who seems to abhor any- 
thing like a merry-making, took himself off to 
his room. To-morrow he will be all the worse 
for it, and will be sure to have a theological 
battle with somebody. 

Oct. 5. — The somebody was his daugh- 
ter Katherine, as usual. Baby was asleep 
in my lap and I reached out for a book which 
proved to be a volume of Shakespeare which had 
done long service as an ornament to the table, 
but which nobody ever read, on account of the 
small print. The battle then began thus : 

Father . — “ I regret to see that worldly author 
in your hands, my daughter. ’ ’ 

Daughter . — a little mischievously. — “Why, 
were you wanting to talk, father?” 

“No, I am too feeble to talk to-day. My 
pulse is very weak.” 

“ Let me read aloud to you, then.” 

“ Not from that profane book.” 


(221) 


222 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ It would do you good. You never take any 
recreation. Do let me read a little.” 

Father gets nervous. 

“ Recreation is a snare. I must keep my soul 
ever fixed on divine things. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But can you ? ” 

“ No, alas, no! It is ni)^ grief and shame that 
I do not.” 

“ But if you would indulge yourself in a little 
harmless mirth now and then your mind would 
get rested and you would return to divine things 
with fresh zeal. Why should not the mind have 
its seasons of rest as well as the body ? ’ ’ 

“ We shall have time to rest in heaven. Our 
business here on earth is to be sober and vigil- 
ant because of our adversary ; not to be reading 
plays. ’ ’ 

“I don’t make reading plays my business, 
dear father. I make it my rest and amuse- 
ment.” 

“ Christians do not need amusement ; they find 
rest, refreshment, all they want, in God.” 

“ Do you, father ? ” 

‘ ‘ Alas, no ! He seems a great way off. ’ ’ 

“To me He seems very near. So near that 
He can see every thought of my heart. Dear 
father, it is your disease that makes everything 
so unreal to you. God is really so near, really 
loves us so ; is so sorry for us ! And it seems so 
hard, when you are so good, and so intent on 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 223 

pleasing Him, that you get no comfort out of 
Him.” 

“I am not good, my daughter. I am a vile 
worm of the dust.” 

• “Well, God is good at any rate, and He 
would never have sent His Son to die for you if 
He did not love you.” So then I began to sing. 
Father likes to hear me sing, and the sweet sense 
I had that all I had been saying was true and 
more than true, made me sing with joyful heart. 

I hope it is not a mere miserable presumption 
that makes me dare to talk so to poor father. 
Of course he is ten times better than I am, and 
knows ten times as much, but his disease, what- 
ever it is, keeps his mind befogged. I mean to 
begin now to pray that light may shine into his 
soul. It would be delightful to see the peace of 
God shining in that pale, stern face ! 

March 28. — It is almost six months since 

I wrote that. About the middle of October 
father had one of his ill turns one night, and 
we were all called up. He asked for me parti- 
cularly, and Ernest came for me at last. I was 
a good deal agitated, and would not stop to half 
dress myself and as I had a slight cold already I 
suppose I added to it then. At any rate I was 
taken very sick, and the worst cough I ever 
had has racked my poor frame almost to pieces. 
Nearly six months confinement to my room ; six 


224 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


months of uselessness during which I have been 
a mere cumberer of the ground. Poor Ernest ! 
What a hard time he has had ! Instead of the 
cheerful welcome home I was to give him when- 
ever he entered the house, here I have lain ex- 
hausted, woe-begone and good for nothing. It 
is the bitterest disappointment I ever had. My 
ambition is to be the sweetest, brightest and best 
of wives ; and what with my childish follies, and 
my sickness, what a weary life my dear husband 
has had ! But how often- have I prayed that 
God would do His will in defiance, if need be, of 
mine ! I have tried to remind myself of that 
every day. But I am too tired to write any 
more now. 

March 30. — This experience of suffer- 
ing has filled my mind with new thoughts. At 
one time I was so sick that Ernest sent for 
mother. Poor mother, she had to sleep with 
Martha. It was a great comfort to have her 
here, but I knew by her coming how sick I was, 
and then I began to ponder the question whether 
I was ready to die. Death looked to me as a most 
solemn, momentous event — but there was some- 
thing very pleasant in the thought of being no 
longer a sinner, but a redeemed saint, and of 
dwelling forever in Christ’s presence. Father 
came to see me when I had just reached this 
point. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


225 


“My dear daughter,” he asked, “are you 
prepared to face the Judge of all the earth ? ” 
“No, dear father,” I said, “Christ will do 
that for me.” 

‘ ‘ Have you no misgivings ? ’ ’ 

I could only smile ; I had no strength to talk. 
Then I heard Ernest — my dear, calm, self- 
controlled Ernest — burst out crying and rush 
out of the room. I looked after him, and how I 
loved him ! But I felt that I loved my Saviour 
infinitely more, and that if he now let me come 
home to be with Him I could trust Him to be a 
thousand fold more to Ernest than I could ever 
be, and to take care of my darling baby and my 
precious mother far better than I could. The 
very gates of heaven seemed open to let me in. 
And then they were suddenly shut in my face, 
and I found myself a poor, weak, tempted 
creature here upon earth. I, who fancied my- 
self an heir of glory, was nothing but a peevish, 
human creature — very human indeed, overcome 
if Martha shook the bed, as she always did, 
irritated if my food did not come at the right 
moment, or was not of the right sort, hurt and 
offended if Ernest put on a tone less anxious 
and tender than he had used when I was very 
ill, and in short, my own poor faulty self once 
more. Oh, what fearful battles I fought for 
patience, forbearance and unselfishness ! What 
sorrowful tears of shame I shed over hasty, im- 


226 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


patient words and fretful tones ! No wonder I 
longed to be gone where weakness should be 
swallowed up in strength, and sin give place to 
eternal perfection ! 

But here I am, and suffering and work lie be- 
fore me, for which I feel little physical or mental 
courage. But “blessed be the will of God,” 

April 5. — I was alone with father last 

evening, Ernest and Martha both being out, and 
soon saw by the way he fidgeted in his chair that 
he had something on his mind. So I laid down 
the book I was reading and asked him what it 
was. 

“My daughter,” he began, “can you bear a 
plain word from an old man ? ” 

I felt frightened, for I knew I had been im- 
patient to Martha of late, in spite of all my 
efforts to the contrary. I am still so miserably 
unwell. 

‘ ‘ I have seen many death-beds, ’ ’ he went on ; 
‘ * but I never saw one where there was not some 
dread of the King of Terrors exhibited ; nor one 
where there was such absolute certainty of having 
found favor with God, as to make the hour of 
departure entirely free from such doubts and 
such humility as becomes a guilty sinner about 
to face his Judge.” 

“I never saw such a one either,” I replied; 
“but there have been many such deaths, and I 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


227 


hardly know of any scene that so honors and 
magnifies the Lord.” 

“ Yes,” he said, slowly ; “but they were old, 
mature, ripened Christians.” 

“Not always old, dear father. Let me de- 
scribe to you a scene that Ernest described to 
me only yesterday.” 

He waved his hand in token that this would 
delay his coming to the point he was aiming at. 

“To speak plainly,” he said, “I feel uneasy 
about you, my daughter. You are young and 
in the bloom of life, but when death seemed 
staring you in the face, you expressed no 
anxiety, asked for no counsel, showed no alarm. 
It must be pleasant to possess so comfortable a 
persuasion of our acceptance with God ; but is 
it safe to rest on such an assurance, while we 
know that the human heart is deceitful above all 
things and desperately wicked?” 

“I thank you for the suggestion,” I said; 
“ and dear father, do not be afraid to speak still 
more plainly. You live in the house with me, 
see all my short-comings and my faults, and I 
cannot wonder that you think me a poor, weak 
Christian. But do you really fear that I am 
deceived in believing that notwithstanding this 
I do really love my God and Saviour and am 
His child ? ’ ’ 

“No,” he said, hesitating a little, “I can’t 
say" that exactly — I can’t say that.” 


228 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


This hesitation distressed me. At first it seem- 
ed to me that my life must have uttered a very 
uncertain sound, if those who saw it could mis- 
understand its language. But then I reflected 
that it was, at best, a very faulty life, and that 
its springs of action were not necessarily seen by 
lookers on. 

Father saw my distress and perplexity, and 
seemed touched by them. 

Just then Ernest came in with Martha, but 
seeing that something was amiss, the latter took 
herself off to her room, which I thought really 
kind of her. 

“What is it, father? What is it, Katy?” 
asked Ernest, looking from one troubled face to 
the other. 

I tried to explain. 

“I think, father, you may safely trust my 
wife’s spiritual interests to me,” Ernest said, 
with some warmth. “You do not understand 
her. I do. Because there is nothing morbid 
about her, because she has a sweet, cheerful 
confidence in Christ you doubt and misjudge 
her. You may depend upon it that people are 
individual in their piety as in other things, and 
cannot all be run in one mould. Katy has a 
playful way of speaking, I know, and often ex- 
presses her strongest feelings with what seems 
like levity, and is, perhaps, a little reckless about 
being misunderstood in consequence.” 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


229 


He smiled on me, as he thus took up the 
cudgels in my defence, and I never felt so grate- 
ful to him in my life. The truth is, I hate 
sentimentalism so cordially, and have besides 
such an instinct to conceal my deepest, most 
sacred emotions, that I do not wonder people 
misunderstand and misjudge me. 

“ I did not refer to her playfulness,” father 
returned. ‘ ‘ Old people must make allowances for 
the young ; they must make allowances. What 
pains me is, that this child, full of life and gaiety 
as she is, sees death approach without that becom- 
ing awe and terror which befits mortal man.” 

Ernest was going to reply, but I broke in 
eagerly upon his answer. 

“ It is true that I expressed no anxiety when 
I believed death to be at hand. I felt none. I 
had given myself away to Christ, and He had 
received me, and why should I be afraid to take 
His hand and go where he led me ? And it is 
true that I asked for no counsel. I w r as too 
weak to ask questions or to like to have ques- 
tions asked ; but my mind was bright and wide 
awake, while my body was so feeble, and I took 
counsel of God. Oh, let me read to you two 
passages from the life of Caroline Fry which 
will make you understand how a poor sinner 
looks upon death. The first is an extract from 
a letter written after learning that her days on 
earth were numbered. 


230 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ ‘ As many will hear and will not understand, 
why I want no time for preparation, often de- 
sired by far holier ones than I, I tell you why, 
and shall tell others, and so shall you. It is 
not because I am so holy, but because I am so 
sinful. The peculiar character of my religious 
experience has always been a deep, an agonizing 
sense of sin ; the sin of yesterday, of to-day, 
confessed with anguish hard to be endured, and 
cried for pardon that could not be unheard ; each 
day cleansed anew in Jesus’ blood, and each day 
more and more hateful in my own sight ; what 
can I do in death I have not done in life ; What 
do in this week, when I am told I cannot live, 
other than I did last week, when I knew it not ? 
Alas, there is but one thing undone ; to serve 
Him better ; and the death bed is no place for 
that. Therefore I say, if I am not ready now, I 
shall not be by delay, so far as I have to do with 
it. If He has more to do in me that is His part. 
I need not ask Him not to spoil His work by too 
much haste. ’ ’ 

“And these are her dying words, a few days 
later. 

“ ‘This is my bridal-day, the beginning of my 
life. I wish there should be no mistake about 
the reason of my desire to depart and to be with 
Christ. I confess myself the vilest, chiefest of 
sinners, and I desire to go to Him that I may be 
rid of the burden of sin — the sin of my nature — 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


231 


not the past, repented of every day, but the 
present, hourly, momentary sin, which I do com- 
mit, or may commit — the sense of which at times 
drives me half mad with grief ! ’ ’ ’ 

I shall never forget the expression of father’s 
face, as I finshed reading these remarkable words. 
He rose slowly from his seat, and came and 
kissed me 011 the forehead. Then he left the 
room, but returned with a large volume, and 
pointing to a blank page, requested me to copy 
them there. He complains that I do not write 
legibly, so I printed them as plainly as I could, 
with my pen. 

Junk 20. — On the first of Ma}q there 

came to us, with other spring flowers, our little 
fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter. How rich I 
felt when I heard Ernest’s voice, as he replied 
to a question asked at the door, proclaim, 
“ Mother and children all well.” To think that 
we, who thought ourselves rich before, are made 
so much richer now ! 

But she is not large and vigorous, as little 
Ernest was, and we cannot rejoice in her without 
some misgiving. Yet her very frailty makes her 
precious to us. Tittle Ernest hangs over her 
with an almost lover-like pride and devotion, 
and should she live, I can imagine what a pro- 
tector he will be for her. I have had to give up 
the care of him to Martha. During my illness I 


232 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


do not know what would have become of him 
but for her. One of the pleasant events of every 
day at that time, was her bringing him to me in 
such exquisite order, his face shining with health 
and happiness, his hair and dress so beautifully 
neat and clean. Now that she has the care of 
him, she has become very fond of him, and he 
certainly forms one bond of union between us, 
for we both agree that he is the handsomest, 
best, most remarkable child that ever lived, or 
ever will live. 

July 6. — I have come home to dear 

mother with both my children. Ernest says our 
only hope for baby is to keep her out of the city 
during the summer months. 

What a petite wee maiden she is ? Where does 
all the love come from ? If I had had her always 
I do not see how I could be more fond of her. 
And do people call it living who never had any 
children ? 

July io. — If this darling baby lives, I 

shall always believe it is owing to my mother’s 
prayers. 

I find little Ernest has a passionate temper, 
and a good deal of self-will. But he has fine 
qualities. I wish he had a better mother. „ I am 
so impatient with him when he is wayward and 
perverse ! What he needs is a firm, gentle hand, 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


233 


moved by no caprice, and controlled by the con- 
stant fear of God. He never ought to hear an 
irritable word, or a sharp tone ; but he does hear 

them, I must own with grief and shame. The 
truth is, it is so long since I really felt strong 
and well that I am not myself, and cannot do 
him justice, poor child. Next to being a perfect 
wife I want to be a perfect mother. How mor- 
tifying, how dreadful in all things to come short 
of even one’s own standard ! What approach, 

then, does one make to God’s standard ? 

Mother seems very happy to have us here, 

though we make so much trouble. She encour- 
ages me in all my attempts to control myself and 
to control my dear little boy, and the chapters 
she gives me out of her own experience are as 
interesting as a novel, and a good deal more 
instructive. 

August. — Dear Ernest has come to spend 

a week with us. He is all tired out, as there 
has been a great deal of sickness in the city, and 
father has had quite a serious attack. He 
brought with him a nurse for baby, as one more 
desperate effort to strengthen her constitution. 

I reproached him for doing it without consult- 
ing me, but he said mother had written to tell 
him that I was all worn out and not in a state to 
have the care of the children. It has been a 
terrible blow to me. One by one I am giving up 


234 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


the sweetest maternal duties. God means that I 
shall be nothing and do nothing ; a mere useless 
sufferer. But when I tell Ernest so, he says I 
am everything to him, and that God’s children 
please Him just as well when they sit patiently 
with folded hands, if that is His will, as wdien 
they are hard at work. But to be at work, to 
be useful, to be necessary to my husband and 
children, is just what I w r ant, and I do find it 
hard to be set against the wall as it v r ere, like an 
old piece of furniture no longer of any service. 
I see now that my first desire has not been to 
please God, but to please myself, for I am rest- 
less under His restraining hand, and find my 
prison a very narrow one. I -would be willing 
to bear any other trial, if I could only have 
health and strength for my beloved ones. I 
pray for patience with bitter tears. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


October. 

We are all at home together once more. The 
parting with mother was very painful. Every 
year that she lives now increases her loneliness, 
and makes me long to give her the shelter of my 
home. But in the midst of these anxieties, how 
much I have to make me happy ! Eittle Ernest 
is the life and soul of the house ; the sound of 
his feet pattering about, and all his prattle, are 
the sweetest music to my ear ; and his heart is 
brim full of love and joy, so that he shines on us 
all like a sunbeam. Baby is improving every 
day, and is one of those tender, clinging little 
things that appeal to everybody’s love and sym- 
pathy. I never saw a more angelic face than hers. 
Father sits by the hour looking at her. To-day 
he said : “ Daughter Katherine, this lovely lit- 

tle one is not meant for this sinful world.” 

‘ ‘ This world needs to be adorned with lovely 
little ones,” I said. “And baby was never so 
well as she is now. ’ ’ 

“ Do not set your heart too fondly upon her,” 
he returned. “ I feel that she is far too dear to 
me.” 

(235) 


236 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ But, father, we could give her to God if He 
should ask for her. Surely, we love Him better 
than we love her.” 

But as I spoke a sharp pang shot through and 
through my soul, and I held my little fair daugh- 
ter closely in my arms, as if I could always keep 
her there. It may be my conceit, but it really 
does seem as if poor father was getting a little 
fond of me. Ever since my own sickness I have 
felt great sympathy for him, and he feels, no 
doubt, that I give him something that neither 
Ernest nor Martha can do, since they were never 
sick one day in their lives. I do wish he could 
look more at Christ and at what He has done 
and is doing for us. The way of salvation is to 
me a wide path, absolutely radiant with the glory 
of Him who shines upon it ; I see my short- 
comings ; I see my sins, but I feel myself bathed, 
as it were, in the effulgent glow that proceeds 
directly from the throne of God and the Eamb. 
It seems as if I ought to have some misgivings 
about my salvation, but I can hardly say that I 
have one. How strange, how mysterious that 
is ! And here is father, .so much older, so much 
better than I am, creeping along in the dark ! I 
spoke to Ernest about it. He says I owe it to 
my training, in a great measure, and that my 
mother is fifty years in advance of her age. But 
it can’t be all that. It was only after years of 
struggle and prayer that God gave me this joy. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


237 


Nov. 24. — Krnest asked me yesterday if 

I knew that Amelia and her husband had come 
here to live, and that she was very ill. 

“ I wish you would go to see her, dear,” he 
added. “She is a stranger here, and in great 
need of a friend.” I felt extremely disturbed. 
I have lost my old affection for her, and the idea 
of meeting her husband was unpleasant. 

‘ * Is she very sick ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes. She is completely broken down. I 
promised her that you should go to see her.” 

‘ ‘ Are you attending her ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, her husband came for me himself.” 

“ I don’t want to go,” I said. “It will be 
very disagreeable.” 

“Yes, dear, I know it. But she needs a 
friend, as I said before.” 

I put on my things very reluctantly, and went. 
I found Amelia in a richly-furnished house, but 
looking untidy and ill-cared for. She was lying 
on a couch in her bed-room ; three delicate look- 
ing children were playing about, and their nurse 
sat sewing at the window. 

A terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for 
her to speak for some moments. At last she recov- 
ered herself sufficiently to welcome me, by throw- 
ing her arms around me and bursting into tears. 

“Oh, Katy ! ” she cried, “should you have 
known me if we had met in the street ? Don’t 
you find me sadly altered? ” 


238 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


“ You are changed,” I said, “ but so am I.” 

“ Yes, you do not look strong. But then you 
never did. And you are as pretty as ever, while 
I — oh, Kate ! do you remember what round 
white arms I used to have? Kook at them now !” 
And she drew up her sleeve, poor child. Just 
then I heard a step in the passage, and her hus- 
band sauntered into the room, smoking. 

“ Do go away, Charles,” she said, impatiently. 
“ You know how your cigar sets me coughing.” 
He held out his hand to me with the easy, 
nonchalant air of one who is accustomed to suc- 
cess and popularity. 

I looked at him with an aversion I could not 
conceal. The few years since we met has changed 
him so completely that I almost shuddered at the 
sight of his already bloated face, and at the air 
that told of a life worse than wasted. 

“ Do go away, Charles,” Amelia repeated. 

He threw himself into a chair without paying 
the least attention to her, and still addressing 
himself to me again said, “Upon my word, you 
are prettier than ever and — ” 

“I will come to see you at another time, 
Amelia,” I said, putting on all the dignity I 
could condense in my small frame, and rising to 
take leave. 

“Don’t go, Katy ! ” he cried, starting up, 
“don’t go. I want to have a good talk about 
old times.” 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 239 

Katy , indeed ! How dared he ? I came away 
burning with anger and mortification. Is it 
possible that I ever loved such a man ? That to 
gratify that love I defied and grieved my dear 
mother through a whole year ! Oh, from what 
hopeless misery God saved me, when he snatched 
me out of the depth of my folly ! 

Dec. 1. — Ernest says I can go to see 

Amelia with safety now, as her husband has 
sprained his ankle, and keeps to his own room. 
So I am going. But I am sure I shall say some- 
thing imprudent or unwise, and wish I could 
think it right to stay away. I hope God will go 
with me and teach me what words to speak. 

Dec. 2. — I found Amelia more unwell 

than on my first visit, and she received me again 
with tears. 

“How good you are to come so soon,” she 
began. “ I did not blame you for running off 
the other day ; Charley’s impertinence was 
shameful. He said, after you left, that he per- 
ceived you had not yet lost your quickness to 
take offence, but I know he felt that you showed 
a just displeasure, and nothing more.” 

“ No, I was really angry,” I replied. “I find 
the road to perfection lies up-hill, and I slip back 
so often that sometimes I despair of ever reach- 
ing the top.” 


240 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


‘ ‘ What does the doctor say about me ?’ ’ she 
asked. “ Does he think me very sick ? ” 

‘ ‘ I dare say he will tell you exactly what he 
thinks,” I returned, “if you ask him. This is 
his rule with all his patients.” 

“ If I could get rid of this cough I should soon 
be myself again,” she said. “ Some days I feel 
quite bright and well. But if it were not for my 
poor little children, I should not care much how 
the thing ended. With the life Charley leads 
me, I haven’t much to look forward to.” 

“You forget that the children’s nurse is in 
the room,” I whispered. 

“Oh, I don’t mind Charlotte. Charlotte 
knows how he neglects me, don’t you, Charlotte?” 
Charlotte was discreet enough to pretend not 
to hear this question, and Amelia went on, “ It 
began very soon after we were married. He 
would go round with other girls exactly as he 
did before ; then when I spoke about it he would 
just laugh in his easy, good-natured way, but 
pay no attention to my wishes. Then when I 
grew more in earnest he would say, that as long 
as he let me alone I ought to let him alone. I 
thought that when our first baby came that 
would sober him a little, but he wanted a boy 
and it turned out to be a girl. And my being 
unhappy and crying so much, made the poor 
thing fretful ; it kept him awake at night, so he 
took another room. After that I saw him less 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


241 


than ever, though now and then he would have 
a little love-fit, when he would promise to be at 
home more and treat me with more considera- 
tion. We had two more little girls — twins ; and 
then a boy. Charley seemed quite fond of him, 
and did certainly seem improved, though he was 
still out a great deal with a set of idle young 
men, smoking, drinking wine, and I don’t know 
what else. His uncle gave him too much money, 
and he had nothing to do but to spend it.” 

“ You must not tell me any more now,” I said. 
” Wait till you are stronger.” 

The nurse rose and gave her something which 
seemed to refresh her. I went to look at the 
little girls, who were all pretty, pale-faced 
creatures, very quiet and mature in their ways. 

” I am rested now,” said Amelia, “ and it does 
me good to talk to you, because I can see that 
you are sorry for me.” 

“I am, indeed ! ” I cried. 

‘ ‘ When our little boy was three months old I 
took this terrible cold and began to cough. 
Charley at first remonstrated with me for cough- 
ing so much ; he said it was a habit I had got, 
and that I ought to cure myself of it. Then the 
baby began to pine and pine, and the more it 
w r asted the more I wasted. And at last it died. 

Here the poor child burst out again ; and I 
wiped away her tears as fast as they fell, thank- 
ful that she coiild cry. 


242 


STEPPING HE A VENJVARD. 


“ After that,” she went on, after a while, 
‘ ‘ Charley seemed to lose his last particle of affec- 
tion for me ; he kept away more than ever, and 
once when I besought him not to neglect me and 
my children so, he said he was well paid for not 
keeping up his engagement with you, that you 
had some strength of character, and — ’ ’ 

“Amelia,” I interrupted, “ do not repeat such 
things. They only pain and mortify me.” 

“Well,” she sighed, wearily, “ this is what he 
has at last brought me to. I am sick and broken- 
hearted, and care very little what becomes of me. ’ ’ 

There was a long silence. I wanted to ask 
her if, when earthly refuge failed her, she could 
not find shelter in the love of Christ. But I 
have, what is, I fear, a morbid terror of seeking 
the confidence of others. I knelt down at last, 
and kissed the poor faded face. 

“Yes, I knew you would feel for me,” she 
said. “ The only pleasant thought I had when 
Charley insisted on coming here to live was that 
I should see you.” 

“ Does your uncle live here, too ? ” I asked. 

“Yes, he came first, and it was that that put 
it into Charley’s head to come. He is very kind 
to me.” 

“Yes,” I said, “and God is kind, too, isn’t 
He?” 

‘ ‘ Kind to let me get sick and disgust Charley ? 
Now, Katy, how can you talk so ? ” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


243 


I replied by repeating two lines from a hymn 
of which I am very fond : 

“ O Saviour, whose mercy, severe in its kindness, 

Hath chastened my wanderings, and guided my way.” 

“I don’t much care for hymns,” she said. 
“When one is well, and everything goes quite 
to one’s mind, it is nice to go to church and sing 
with the rest of them. But, sick as I am, it isn’t 
so easy to be religious.” 

“ But isn’t this the very time to look to Christ 
for comfort ? ’ ’ 

“What’s the use of looking anywhere for 
comfort ? ” she said, peevishly. “ Wait till you 
are sick and heart-broken yourself, and you’ll 
see that you won’t feel much like doing anything 
but just groan and cry your life out.” 

“I have been sick, and I know what sorrow 
means,” I said. “And I am glad that I do. For 
I have learned Christ in that school, and I know 
that He can comfort when no one else can.” 

‘ ‘You always were an odd creature, ’ ’ she replied. 
‘ ‘ I never pretended to understand half you said. ’ ’ 
I saw that she was tired, and came away. 
Oh, how I wished that I had been able to make 
Christ look to her as He did to me all the way 
home ! 


Dec. 24. — Father says he does not like 

Dr. Cabot’s preaching. He thinks that it is not 


244 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


doctrinal enough, and that he does not preach 
enough to sinners. But I can see that it has 
influenced him already, and that he is beginning 
to think of God as manifested in Christ, far 
more than he used to do. With me he has end- 
less discussions on his and my favorite subjects, 
and though I can never tell along what path I 
walked to reach a certain conclusion, the earnest- 
ness of my convictions does impress him strange- 
ly. I am sure there is a great deal of conceit 
mixed up with all I .say, and then when I com- 
pare my life with my own standard of duty, I 
wonder I ever dare to open my mouth and under- 
take to help others. 

Baby is not at all well. To see such a little 
frail, tender thing really suffering, tears my soul 
to pieces. I think it would distress me less to 
give her to God just as she is now, a vital part 
of my very heart, than to see her live a mere 
invalid life. But I try to feel, as I know I say, 
Thy will be done ! Tittle Ernest is the very 
picture of health and beauty. He has vitality 
enough for two children. He and his little 
sister will make very interesting contrasts as 
they grow older. His ardor and vivacity will 
rouse her, and her gentleness will soften him. 

Jan. i, 1841 — Every day brings its own 

duty and its own discipline. How is it that I 
make such slow progress while this is the case ? 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


245 


It is a marvel to me why God allows characters 
like mine to defile His church. I can only 
account for it with the thought that if I ever am 
perfected, I shall be a great honor to His name, 
for surely worse material for building up a tem- 
ple of the Holy Ghost was never gathered 
together before. The time may come when 
those who know me now, crude, childish, incom- 
plete, will look upon me with amazement, saying, 
“What hath God wrought !” If I knew such a 
time would never come, I should want to flee 
into the holes and eaves of the earth. 

I have everything to inspire me to devotion. 
My dear mother’s influence is always upon me. 
To her I owe the habit of flying to God in every 
emergency, and of believing in prayer. Then I 
am in close fellowship with a true man and a true 
Christian. Ernest has none of my fluctuations ; 
he is always calm and self-possessed. This is 
partly his natural character ; but he has studied 
the Bible more than any other book, his convic- 
tions of duty are fixed because they are drawn 
thence, and his constant contact with the sick 
and the suffering has revealed life to him just as 
it is. How he has helped me on ! God bless 
him for it ! 

Then I have James. To be with him one half 
hour is an inspiration. He lives in such blessed 
communion with Christ that he is in perpetual 
sunshine, and his happiness fertilizes even this 


246 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


disordered household ; there is not a soul in it 
that does not catch somewhat of his joyousness. 

And there are my children ! My darling, 
precious children ! For their sakes I am con- 
tinually constrained to seek after an amended, a 
sanctified life ; what I want them to become I 
must become myself. 

So I enter on a new year, not knowing what 
it will bring forth, but surely with a thousand 
reasons for thanksgiving, for joy, and for hope. 

Jan. 16. — One more desperate effort to 

make harmony out of the discords of my house, 
and one more failure. Ernest forgot that it was 
our wedding-day, which mortified and pained me, 
especially as he had made an engagement to dine 
out. I am always expecting something from life 
that I never get. Is it so with everybody ? I 
am very uneasy, too, about James. He seems 
to be growing fond of Eucy’s society. I am 
perfectly sure that she could not make him 
happy. Is it possible that he does not know 
what a brilliant j^oung man he is, and that he 
can have whom he pleases ? It is easy, in theory, 
to let God plan our own destiny, and that of 
our friends. But when it comes to a specific 
case, we fancy we can help His judgments with 
our poor reason. Well, I must go to Him with 
this new anxiety, and trust my darling brother’s 
future to Him, if I can. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


247 


I shall try to win James’ confidence. If it is 
not Lucy, who or what is it that is making him 
so thoughtful and serious, yet so wondrously 
happy ? 


Jan. 17. — I have been trying to find 

out whether this is a mere notion of mine about 
Lucy. James laughs, and evades my questions. 
But he owns that a very serious matter is occu- 
pying his thoughts, of which he does not wish 
to speak at present. May God bless him in it, 
whatever it is. 

May 1. — My delicate little Una’s first 

birthday. Thank God for sparing her to us a 
year. If He should take her away I should still 
rejoice that this life was mingled with ours, and 
has influenced them. Yes, even an unconscious 
infant is an ever felt influence in the household : 
what an amazing thought ! 

I have given this precious little one away to her 
Saviour and to mine ; living or dying, she is His. 

Dec. 13. — Writing journals does not seem 

to be my mission on earth of late. My busy 
hands find so much else to do ! And sometimes 
when I have been particularly exasperated and 
tried by the jarring elements that form my home, 
I have not dared to indulge myself with record- 
ing things that ought to be forgotten. 


248 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


How I long to live in peace with all men, and 
liow I resent interference in the management of 
my children ! If the time ever comes, that I 
live, a spinster of a certain age, in the family of 
an elder brother, what a model of forbearance, 
charity and sisterly loving-kindness I shall be ! 


CHAPTER XVII. 


January i, 1842. 

I mean to resume my journal, and be more 
faithful to it this year. How many precious 
things, said by dear Mrs. Campbell and others, 
are lost forever, because I did not record them 
at the time ! 

I have seen her to-day. At Ernest’s sugges- 
tion I have let Susan Green provide her with a 
comfortable chair, which enables her to sit up 
during a part of each day. I found her in it, 
full of gratitude, her sweet, tranquil face shin- 
ing, as it always is, with a light reflected from 
heaven itself. She looks like one who has had 
her struggle with life and conquered it. During 
last year I visited her often, and gradually 
learned much of her past history, though she 
does not love to talk of herself. She has out- 
lived her husband, and a house-full of girls and 
boys ; her ill health is chiefly the result of years 
of watching by their sick beds, and grief at 
their loss. 

For she does not pretend not to grieve, but 
always says, “ It is repining that dishonors God, 
not grief.” 


(249) 


250 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


I said to her to-day, “Doesn’t it seem hard 
when you think of the many happy homes there 
are in the world, that you should be singled out 
for such bereavement and loneliness?” 

She replied, with a smile, “I am not singled 
out, dear. There are thousands of God’s own 
dear children, scattered over the world, suffering 
far more than I do. And I do not think there 
are many persons in it who are happier than I 
am. I was bound to my God and Saviour before 
I knew a sorrow, it is true. But it was by a 
chain of many links ; and every link that 
dropped away, brought me to Him, till at last, 
having nothing left, I w r as shut up to Him, and 
learned fully what I had only learned partially, 
how soul-satisfying He is.” 

“You think then,” I said, while my heart 
died within me, “that husband and children are 
obstacles in our way, and hinder our getting 
near to Christ ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” she cried. “ God never gives us 
hindrances. On the contrary, He means, in 
making us wives and mothers, to put us into the 
very conditions of holy living. But if we abuse 
His gifts by letting them take His place in our 
hearts, it is an act of love on His part to take 
them away, or to destroy our pleasure in them. 
It is delightful,” she added, after a pause, “to 
know that there are some generous souls on earth, 
who love their dear ones with all their hearts, 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


251 


yet give those hearts unreservedly to Christ. 
Mine was not one of them.” 

I had some little service to render her which 
interrupted our conversation. The offices I have 
had to have rendered me in my own long days of 
sickness have taught me to be less fastidious 
about waiting upon others. I am thankful that 
God has at last made me willing to do anything 
in a sick-room that must be done. She thanked 
me, as she always does, and then I said, “ I 
have a great many little trials, but they don’t do 
me a bit of good. Or, at least, I don’t see that 
they do.” 

“ No, we never see plants growing,” she said. 

” And do you really think then that perhaps I 
am growing, though unconsciously ? ’ ’ 

” I know you are, dear child. There can’t be 
life without growth.” 

This comforted me. I came home, praying all 
the way, and striving to commit myself entirely 
to Him in whose school I sit as learner. Oh, 
that I were a better scholar ! But I do not half 
learn my lessons, I am heedless and inattentive, 
and I forget what is taught. Perhaps this is the 
reason that weighty truths float before my mind’s 
eye at times, but do not fix themselves there. 

March 20. — I have been much impressed 

by Dr. Cabot’s sermons to-day. While I am 
listening to his voice and hear him speak of the 


252 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


beauty and desirableness of the Christian life, I 
feel as he feels, that I am willing to count all 
things but dross that I may win Christ. But 
when I come home to my worldly cares, I get 
completely absorbed in them, and it is only by a 
painful wrench that I force my soul back to God. 
Sometimes I almost envy Lucy her calm nature, 
which gives her so little trouble. Why need I 
throw my whole soul into whatever I do ? Why 
can’t I make so much as an apron for little 
Ernest without the ardor and eagerness of a 
soldier marching to battle? I wonder if people 
of my temperament ever get toned down, and 
learn to take life coolly ? 

Junk io. — My dear little Una has had a 

long and very severe illness. It seems wonderful 
that she could survive such sufferings. And it 
is almost as wonderful that I could look upon 
them, week after week, without losing my senses. 

At first Ernest paid little attention to my re- 
peated entreaties that he would prescribe for her, 
and some precious time was thus lost. But the 
moment he was fully aroused to see her danger, 
there was something beautiful in his devotion. 
He often walked the room with her by the hour 
together, and it was touching to see her lying 
like a pale, crushed lily in his strong arms. One 
morning she seemed almost gone, and we knelt 
around her with bursting hearts, to commend 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


253 


her parting soul to Him in whose arms we were 
about to place her. But it seemed as if all he 
asked of us was to come to that point, for then 
He gave her back to us, and she is still ours, 
only seven-fold dearer. I was so thankful to see 
dear Ernest’s faith triumphing over his heart, 
and making him so ready to give up even this 
little lamb without a word. Yes, we will give 
our children to Him if He asks for them. He 
shall never have to snatch them from us by force. 

Oct. 4. — We have had a quiet summer 

in the country, that is, I have with my darling 
little ones. This is the fourth birthday of our 
son and heir, and he has been full of health and 
vivacity, enjoying everything with all his heart. 
How he lights up our sombre household ! Father 
has been fasting to-day, and is so worn out and 
so nervous in consequence, that he could not 
bear the sound of the children’s voices. I wish, 
if he must fast, he would do it moderately, and 
do it all the time. Now he goes without food 
until he is ready to sink, and then he eats quan- 
tities of improper food. If Martha could only 
see how mischievous all this is for him. After 
the children had been hustled out of the w 7 ay, 
and I had got them both off to bed, he said in 
his most doleful manner, “ I hope, my daughter, 
that you are faithful to your son. He has now 
reached the age of four years, and is a remark- 


254 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


ably intelligent child. I hope you teach him 
that he is a sinner, and that he is in a state of 
condemnation. ” 

“Now, father, don’t,” I said. “You are all 
tired out, and do not know what you are saying. 

I would not have little Ernest hear you for the 
world.” 

Poor father ! He fairly groaned. 

“You are responsible for that child’s soul,” 
he said; “you have more influence over him 
than all the world besides. ’ ’ 

“I know it,” I said, “and sometimes I feel 
ready to sink when I think of the great work 
God has intrusted to me. But my poor child 
will learn that he is a sinner only too soon, and 
before that dreadful day arrives I want to fortify 
his soul with the only antidote against the misery 
that knowledge will give him. I want him to 
see his Redeemer in all His love, and all His 
beauty, and to love Him with all his heart and 
soul and mind and strength. Dear father, pray • 
for him, and pray for me, too.” 

“ I do, I will,” he said, solemnly. And then 
followed the inevitable long fit of silent musing, 
when I often wonder what is passing in that suffer- 
ing soul. For a sufferer he certainly is who sees 
a great and good and terrible God who cannot 
look upon iniquity, and does not see His risen 
Son, who has paid the debt we owe, and lives to 
intercede for us before the throne of the Father. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


255 


Jan. 1, 1842. — James came to me yester- 
day with a letter he had been writing to mother. 

“ I want you to read this before it goes,” he 
said, “ for you ought to know my plans as soon 
as mother does.” 

I did not get time to read it till after tea. 
Then I came up here to my room, and sat down 
curious to know what was coming. 

Well, I thought I loved him as much as one 
human being could love another, already, but 
now my heart embraced him with a fervor and 
delight that made me so happy that I could not 
speak a word when I knelt down to tell my 
Saviour all about it. 

He said that he had been led, within a few 
months to make a new consecration of himself 
to Christ and to Christ’s cause on earth, and 
this had resulted in his choosing the life of a 
missionary, instead of settling down as he had 
intended to do, as a city physician. Such ex- 
pressions of personal love to Christ, and delight 
in the thought of serving Him, I never read. I 
could only marvel at what God had wrought in 
his soul. For me to live to Christ seems natural 
enough, for I have been driven to Him not only 
by sorrow but by sin. Every outbreak of my 
hasty temper sends me weeping and penitent to 
the foot of the cross, and I love much because 
I have been forgiven much. But James, as far 
as I know, has never had a sorrow, except my 


256 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


father’s death, and that had no apparent religious 
effect. And his natural character is perfectly 
beautiful. He is as warm-hearted and loving and 
guileless as a child, and has nothing of my in- 
temperance, hastiness and quick temper. I have 
often thought that she would be a rare woman 
who could win and wear such a heart as his. 
Life has done little but smile upon him ; he is 
handsome and talented and attractive ; every- 
body is fascinated by him, everybody caresses 
him ; and yet he has turned his back on the 
world that has dealt so kindly with him, and 
given himself, as Edwards says, “ clean away to 
Christ!” Oh, how thankful I am! And yet 
to let him go ! My only brother — mother’s only 
son ! But I know what she will say ; she will 
bid him God-speed ! 

Ernest came upstairs, looking tired and jaded. 
I read the letter to him. It impressed him 
strangely ; but he only said : 

“This is what we might expect, who know 
James, dear fellow ! ” 

But when we knelt down to pray together, 
I saw how he was touched, and how his soul 
kindled within him in harmony with that con- 
secrated, devoted spirit. Dear James ! It must 
be mother’s prayers that have done for him this 
wondrous work that is usually the slow growth 
of years ; and this is the mother who prays for 
you, Katy ! So take courage ! 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


257 


Jan. 2. — James means to study theology 

as well as medicine, it seems. That will keep him 
with us for some years. Oh, is it selfish to take 
this view of it? Alas, the spirit is willing to 
have him go, but the flesh is weak, and cries out. 

Oct. 22. — Amelia came to see me to-day. 

She has been traveling, for her health, and cer- 
tainly looks much improved. 

“Charley and I are quite good friends again,” 
she began. “We have jaunted about every- 
where, and had a delightful time. What a snug 
little box of a house you have.” 

“ It is inconveniently small,” I said, “ for our 
family is large, and the doctor needs more office 
room.” 

‘ ‘ Does he receive patients here ? How horrid ! 
Don’t you hate to have people with all sorts of 
ills and aches in the house? It must depress 
your spirits. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I dare say it would if I saw them ; but I 
never do.” 

“I should like to see your children. Your 
husband says you are perfectly devoted to them.” 

“As I suppose all mothers are,” I replied, 
laughing. 

“As to that,” she returned, “people differ.” 

The children were brought down. She ad- 
mired little Ernest, as everybody does, but only 
glanced at the baby. 


258 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 

“What a sickly looking little thing!” she 
said. “ But this boy is a splendid fellow ! Ah, 
if mine had lived he would have been just such 
a child ! But some people have all the trouble 
and others all the comfort. I am sure I don’t 
know what I have done that I should have to 
lose my only boy, and have nothing left but 
girls. To be sure I can afford to dress them 
elegantly, and as soon as they get old enough 
I mean to have them taught all sorts of accom- 
plishments. You can’t imagine what a relief it 
is to have plenty of money ! ’ ’ 

“ Indeed I can’t ! ” I said, “it is quite beyond 
the reach of my imagination.” 

“ My uncle — that is to say Charley’s uncle — 
has just given me a carriage and horses for my 
own use. In fact he heaps everything upon me. 
Where do you go to church? ” 

I told her, reminding her that Dr. Cabot was 
its pastor. 

“Oh, I forgot! Poor Dr. Cabot! Is he as 
old fashioned as ever? ” 

“I don’t know what you mean?” I cried. 
“He is as good as ever, if not better. His 
health is very delicate, and that one thing seems 
to be a blessing to him.” 

“A blessing! Why, Kate Mortimer! Kate 
Elliott, I mean. It is a blessing I, for one, am 
very willing to dispense with. But you always 
did say queer things. Well, I dare say Dr. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


259 


Cabot is very good and all that, but his church 
is not a fashionable one, and Charley and I go 
to Dr. Bellamy’s. That is, I go once a day, 
pretty regularly, and Charley goes when he feels 
like it. Good bye. I must go now ; I have all 
my fall shopping to do. Have you done yours ? 
Suppose you jump into the carriage and go with 
me? You can’t imagine how it passes away the 
morning to drive from shop to shop, looking 
over the new goods.” 

“ There seem to be a number of things I can’t 
imagine,” I replied, drily. “You must excuse 
me this morning.” 

She took her leave. I looked at her rich dress 
as she gathered it about her and swept away, 
and recalled her empty, frivolous talk with con- 
tempt. 

She and Ch , her husband, I mean, are 

well- matched. They need their money, and 
their palaces and their fine clothes and hand- 
some equipages, for they have nothing else. 
How thankful I am that I am as unlike them 
as ex 


Oct. 30. — I’m sure I don’t know what 

I was going to say when I was interrupted just 
then. Something in the way of self-glorifi- 
cation, most likely. I remember the contempt 
with which I looked after Amelia as she left our 
house, and the pinnacle on which I sat perched 


26 o 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


for some days, when I compared my life with 
hers. Alas, it was my view of life of which I 
was lost in admiration, for I am sure that if 
I ever come under the complete dominion of 
Christ’s gospel, I shall not know the sentiment 
of disdain. I feel truly ashamed and sorry that 
I am still so far from being penetrated with that 
spirit. 

My pride has had a terrible fall. As I sat on 
my throne, looking down on all the Amelias in 
the world, I felt a profound pity at their delight 
in petty trifles, their love of position, of mere 
worldly show and passing vanities. 

‘ ‘ They are all alike, ’ ’ I said to myself. ‘ ‘ They 
are incapable of understanding a character like 
mine, or the exalted, ennobling principles that 
govern me. They crave the applause of this 
world, they are satisfied with fine clothes, fine 
houses, fine equipages. They think and talk of 
nothing else ; I have not one idea in common 
with them. I see the emptiness and hollowness 
of these things. I am absolutely unworldly ; 
my ambition is to attain whatever they, in their 
blind folly and ignorance, absolutely despise.” 

Thus communing with myself, I was not a • 
little pleased to hear Dr. Cabot and his wife an- 
nounced. I hastened to meet them and to dis- 
play to them the virtues I so admired in myself. 
They had hardly a chance to utter a word. I 
spoke eloquently of my contempt for worldly 


STEPPING HEAVEN WARD. 


261 


vanities, and of my enthusiastic longings for a 
higher life. I even went into particulars about 
the foibles of some of my acquaintances, though 
faint misgivings as to the propriety of such re- 
marks on the absent, made me half repent the 
words I still kept uttering. When they took 
leave, I rushed to my room with my heart beat- 
ing, my cheeks all in a glow, and caught up and 
caressed the children in a way that seemed to 
astonish them. Then I took my work and sat 
down to sew. What a horrible reaction now 
took place ! I saw my refined, subtle, disgust- 
ing pride, just as I suppose Dr. and Mrs. Cabot 
saw it ! I sat covered with confusion, shocked 
at myself, shocked at the weakness of human 
nature. Oh, to get back to the good opinion of 
my friends ! To recover my own self-respect ! 
But this was impossible. I threw down my 
work and walked about my room. There was a 
terrible struggle in my soul. I saw that instead 
of brooding over the display I had made of my- 
self to Dr. Cabot I ought to be thinking solely 
of my appearance in the sight of God, who could 
see far more plainly than any earthly eye could, 
all my miserable pride and self conceit. But I 
could not do that, and chafed about till I was 
worn out, body and soul. At last I sent the 
children away, and knelt down and told the 
whole story to Him who knezv what I was when 
He had compassion on me, called me by my 


262 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


name, and made me his own child. And here 
I found a certain peace. Christian, on his 
way to the celestial city, met and fought his 
Apollyons and his giants too ; but he got there 
at last ! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


November. 

This morning Ernest received an early sum- 
mons to Amelia. I got out of all patience with 
him because he would take his bath and eat his 
breakfast before he went, and should have driven 
any one else distracted by my hurry and flurry. 

“ She has had a hemorrhage !” I cried. “Do, 
Ernest, make haste.” 

“ Of course,” he returned, “that would come, 
sooner or later.” 

“You don’t mean,” I said, “that she has 
been in danger of this all along ? ’ ’ 

“ I certainly do.” 

“ Then it was very unkind in you not to tell 
me so.” 

‘ ‘ I told you at the outset that her lungs were 
diseased.” 

“ No, you told me no such thing. Oh, Ernest, 
is she going to die ? ’ ’ 

“ I did not know you were so fond of her,” he 
said, apologetically. 

“It is not that,” I cried. “ I am distressed 
at the thought of the worldly life she has been 

living — at my never trying to influence her for 

(263) 


264 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


her good. If she is in danger, you will tell her 
so ? Promise me that. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I must see her before I make such a 
promise,” he-said, and went out. 

I flew up to my room and threw myself on my 
knees, sorrowful, self-condemned. I had thrown 
away my last opportunity of speaking a word to 
her in season, though I had seen how much she 
needed one, and now she was going to die ! Oh, 
I hope God will forgive me, and hear the prayers 
I have offered for her ! 

Evening. — Ernest says he had a most 

distressing scene at Amelia’s this morning. She 
insisted on knowing what he thought of her, 
and then burst out into bitter complaints and 
lamentations, charging it to her husband that 
she had this disease, declaring that she could 
not, and would not die, and insisting that he must 
prevent it. Her uncle urged for a consultation 
of physicians, to which Ernest consented, of 
course, though he says no mortal power can save 
her now. I asked him how her husband ap- 
peared, to which he made the evasive answer 
that he appeared just as one would expect him 
to do. 


Dec. — Amelia was .so determined to see 

me that Ernest thought it best for me to go. I 
found her looking very feeble. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 265 

“Oh, Katy,” she began at once, “ do make 
the doctor say that I shall get well ! ’ ’ 

“I wish he could say so with truth.” I 
answered. “ Dear Amelia, try to think how 
happy God’s own children are wdien they are 
with Him.” 

“ I can’t think,” she replied. “ I do not want 
to think. I w r ant to forget all about it. If it 
were not for this terrible cough I could forget it, 
for I am really a great deal better than I was a 
month ago.” 

I did not know what to say or what to do. 

“ May I read a hymn, or a few 7 verses from the 
Bible ? ” I asked, at last. 

“ Just as you like,” she said, indifferently. 

I read a verse now and then, but she looked 
tired, and I prepared to go. 

“ Don’t go,” .she cried. “ I do not dare to be 
alone. Oh, wffiat a terrible, terrible thing it is 
to die ! To leave this bright, beautiful w r orld, 
and be nailed up in a coffin and buried up in a 
cold, dark grave ! ” 

“ Nay,” I said, “ to leave this poor sick body 
there, and to fly to a world ten thousand times 
brighter, more beautiful than this.” 

“I had just got to feeling nearly well,” she 
said, “and I had everything I wanted, and 
Charley was quite good to me, and I kept my 
little girls looking like fairies, just from fairy- 
land. Everybody said they wore the most 


266 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


picturesque costumes when they were dressed 
according to my taste. And I have got to go 
and leave them, and Charley will be marrying 
somebody else and saying to her all the nice 
things he has said to me.” 

‘‘I really must go now,” I said. “You are 
wearing j^ourself all out.” 

“I declare you are crying ! ” she exclaimed 
“You do pity me after all.” 

“ Indeed, I do,” I said, and came away, heart- 
sick. 

Ernest says there is nothing I can do for her 
now but to pray for her, since she does not really 
believe herself in danger, and has a vague feel- 
ing that if she can once convince him how 
much she wants to live, he will use some vigor- 
ous measures to restore her. Martha is to watch 
with her to-night. Ernest will not let me. 

Jan. 18, 1843. — Our wedding-day has 

passed unobserved. Amelia’s suffering condition 
absorbs us all. Martha spends much time with 
her, and prepares almost all the food she eats. 

Jan. 20. — I have seen poor Amelia once 

more, and perhaps for the last time. She has 
failed rapidly of late, and Ernest says may drop 
away at almost any time. 

When I went in she took me by the hand, and 
with great difficulty, and at intervals, said some- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 267 

thing like this, “ I have made up my mind to it, 
and I know it must come. I want to see Dr. 
Cabot. Do you think he would be willing to 
visit me after my neglecting him so ? ” 

“ I am sure he would,” I cried. 

“I want to ask him if he thinks I was a 
Christian at that time — you know when. If I 
was, then I need not be so afraid to die.” 

“But, dear Amelia, what he thinks is very 
little to the purpose. The question is not 
whether you ever gave yourself to God, but 
whether you are His now. But I ought not to 
talk to you. Dr. Cabot will know just what to 
say.” 

“ No, but I want to know what you thought 
about it.” 

I felt distressed as I looked at her wasted 
dying figure, to be called on to help decide such 
a question. But I knew what I ought to say, 
and said it, “ Don’t look back to the past ; it is 
useless. Give yourself to Christ now. ’ ’ 

She shook her head. 

“ I don’t know how,” she said. “ Oh, Katy, 
pray to God to let me live long enough to get 
ready to die. I have led a worldly life. I 
shudder at the bare thought of dying ; I must 
have time.” 

“Don’t wait for time,” I said, with tears, 

‘ ‘ get ready now, this minute. A thousand years 
would not make you more fit to die.” 


268 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


So I came away, weary and heavy-laden, and 
on the way home stopped to tell Dr. Cabot all 
about it, and by this time he is with her. 

March i. — Poor Amelia’s short race 

on earth is over. Dr. Cabot saw her every few 
days and says he hopes she did depart in 
Christian faith, though without Christian joy. 
I have not seen her since that last interview. 
That excited me so that Ernest would not let 
me go again. 

Martha has been there nearly the whole time 
for three or four weeks, and I really think it has 
done her good. She seems less absorbed in mere 
outside things, and more lenient toward me and 
my failings. 

I do not know what is to become of those 
motherless little girls. I wish I could take them 
into my own home, but, of course, that is not 
even to be thought of at this juncture. Ernest 
says their father seemed nearly distracted when 
Amelia died, and that his uncle is going to send 
him off to Europe immediately. 

I have been talking to Ernest about Amelia. 
“ What do you think,” I asked, “ about her last 
days on earth ? Was there really any prepara- 
tion for death ? ’ ’ 

“ These scenes are very painful,” he returned. 
“ Of course there is but one real preparation for 
Christian dying, and that is Christian living.” 


5 TEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


269 


‘ ‘ But the sick room often does what a pros- 
perous life never did ! ” 

“ Not often. Sick persons delude themselves, 
or are deluded by their friends ; they do not 
believe they are really about to die. Besides, 
they are bewildered and exhausted by disease, 
and what mental strength they have is occupied 
with studying symptoms, watching for the doc- 
tor, and the like. I do not now recall a single 
instance where a worldly Christian died a happy, 
joyful death, in all my practice.” 

“Well, in one sense it makes no difference 
whether they die happy or not. The question 
is, do they die in the Lord? ” 

“ It may make no vital difference to them ; but 
we must not forget that God is honored or dis- 
honored by the way a Christian dies, as well as 
by the way in which he lives. There is great 
significance in the description given in the Bible 
of the death by which John should ‘ Glorify God / 
to my mind it implies that to die well is to live 
well.” 

“ But how many thousands die suddenly, or of 
such exhausting disease that they cannot honor 
God by even one feeble word.” 

“ Of course I do not refer to such cases. All 
I ask is that those whose minds are clear, who 
are able to attend to all other final details, should 
let it be seen what the gospel of Christ can do 
for poor sinners in the great exigency of life, 


270 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


giving Him the glory. I can tell you, my dar- 
ling, that standing, as I so often do, by dying 
beds, this whole subject has become one of great 
magnitude to my mind. And it gives me posi- 
tive personal pain to see heirs of the eternal 
kingdom, made such by the ignominious death 
of their Eord, go shrinking and weeping to the 
full possession of their inheritance.” 

Ernest is right, I am sure, but how shall the 
world, even the Christian world, be convinced, 
that it may have blessed foretastes of heaven 
w r hile yet plodding upon earth, and faith to go 
thither joyfully, for the simple asking? 

Poor Amelia ! But she understands it all now. 
It is a blessed thing to have this great faith, and it 
is a blessed thing to have a Saviour who accepts 
it when it is but a mere grain of mustard seed ! 

May 24. — I celebrated my little Una’s 

third birthday by presenting her with a new 
brother. Both the children welcomed him with 
delight that was of itself compensation enough 
for all it cost me to get up such a celebration. 
Martha takes a most prosaic view of this pro- 
ceeding, in which she detects malice prepense on 
my part. She says I shall now have one mouth 
the more to fill, and two feet the more to shoe ; 
more disturbed nights, more laborious days, and 
less leisure for visiting, reading, music, and 
drawing. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


271 


Well ! this is one side of the story, to be sure, 
but I look at the other. Here is a sweet, fra- 
grant mouth to kiss ; here are two more feet to 
make music with their pattering about my nur- 
sery. Here is a soul to train for God, and the 
body in which it dwells is worth all it has cost, 
since it is the abode of a kingly tenant. I may 
see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer 
than them all, to whom, while I minister in 
Christ’s name, I make a willing sacrifice of what 
little leisure for my own recreation, my other 
darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, 
you are welcome to your mother’s heart, wel- 
come to her time, her strength, her health, her 
tenderest cares, to her life-long prayers ! Oh, 
how rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest ! 

Junk 5. — We begin to be woefully 

crowded. We need a larger house, or a smaller 
household. I am afraid I secretly, down at the 
bottom of my heart, wish Martha and her father 
could give place to my little ones. May God 
forgive me if this is so ! It is a poor time for 
such emotions when He has just given me 
another darling child, for whom I have as rich 
and ample a love as if I had spent no affection 
on the other twain. I have made myself espec- 
ially kind to poor father and to Martha, lest 
they should perceive how inconvenient it is to 
have them here, and be pained by it. I would 


272 


5 TEPP1NG HE A VEN IV A PD. 


not, for the world, despoil them of what little 
satisfaction they may derive from living with us. 
But, 0I1 ! I am so selfish, and it is so hard to 
practice the very law of love I preach to my 
children ! Yet I want this law to rule and reign 
in my home, that it may be a little heaven below, 
and will not, no I will not, cease praying that it 
may be such, no matter what it costs me. Poor 
father ! poor old man ! I will try to make your 
home so sweet and home-like to you, that when 
you change it for heaven it shall be but a transi- 
tion from one bliss to a higher ! 

Evening. — Soon after writing that, I went 

down to see father, whom I have had to neglect of 
late, baby has so used up both time and strength. 
I found him and Martha engaged in what seemed 
to be an exciting debate, as Martha had a fiery 
little red spot on each cheek, and was knitting 
furiousty. I was about to retreat, when she got 
up in a flurried way, and went off, saying as she 
went, “You tell her, father; I can’t.” 

I went up to him tenderly and took his hand. 
Ah, how gentle and loving we are when we have 
just been speaking to God ! 

“What is it, dear father?” I asked; “is 
anything troubling you ? ’ ’ 

“ She is going to be married,” he replied. 

“Oh, father!” I cried, “how n — ” nice, I 
was going to say, but stopped just in time. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


273 


All my abominable selfishness, that I thought 
I had left at my Master’s feet ten minutes before, 
now came trooping back in full force. 

“ She’s going to be married ; she’ll go away, 
and will take her father to live with her ! I can 
have room for my children, and room for mother ! 
Every element of discord will now leave my 
home, and Ernest will see what I really am ! ” 

These were the thoughts that rushed through 
my mind, and that illuminated my face. 

“ Does Ernest know? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, Ernest has known it for some weeks . ,y 

Then I felt injured and inwardly accused 
Ernest of unkindness in keeping so important a 
fact a secret. But when I went back to my chil- 
dren, vexation with him took flight at once. 
The coming of each new child strengthens and 
deepens my desire to be what I would have it 
become ; makes my faults more odious in my 
eyes, and elevates my whole character. What a 
blessed discipline of joy and of pain my married 
life has been ; how thankful I am to reap its 
fruits even while pricked by its thorns ! 

Junk 21. — It seems that the happy man 

who has wooed Martha and won her, is no less 
a personage than old Mr. Underhill. His ideal 
of a woman is one who has no nerves, no senti- 
ment, no backaches, no headaches, who will see 
that the wheels of his household machinery are 


274 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


kept well oiled, so that he need never hear them 
creak, and who, in addition to her other accom- 
plishments, believes in him and will be kind 
enough to live forever for his private accommo- 
dation. This expose of his sentiments he has 
made to me in a loud, cheerful, pompous way, 
and he has also favored me with a description of 
his first wife, who lacked all these qualifications, 
and was obliging enough to depart in peace at an 
early stage of their married life, meekly prefer- 
ring thus to make wa}^ for a worthier successor. 
Mr. Underhill, with all his foibles, however, is 
on the whole a good man. He intends to take 
Amelia’s little girls into his own home, and be a 
father, as Martha will be a mother, to them. 
For this reason he hurries on the marriage, after 
which they will all go at once to his country 
seat, which is easy of access, and which he says 
he is sure father will enjoy. Poor old father ! I 
hope he will, but when the subject is alluded to 
he maintains a sombre silence, and it seems to 
me he never spent so many days alone in his 
room, brooding over his misery, as he has of 
late. Oh, that I could comfort him. 

July 12. — The marriage was appointed 

for the first of the month, as old Mr. Underhill 
wanted to get out of town before the Fourth. 
As the time drew near, Martha began to pack 
father’s trunk as well as her own, and brush in 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


275 


and out of his room till he had no rest for the 
sole of his foot, and seemed as forlorn as a peli- 
can in the wilderness. 

I know no more striking picture of desola- 
tion than that presented by one of these quaint 
birds, standing upon a single leg, feeling as 
the story has it, “den Jammer und das Elend 
der Welt.” 

On the last evening in June we all sat together 
on the piazza, enjoying, each in our own way, a 
refreshing breeze that had sprung up after a 
sultry day. Father was quieter than usual, and 
seemed very languid. Ernest, who out of regard 
to Martha’s last evening at home, had joined our 
little circle, observed this, and said, cheerfully : 
“You will feel better as soon as you are once 
more out of the city, father.” 

Father made no reply for some minutes, and 
when he did speak we were all startled to find 
that his voice trembled as if he were shedding 
tears. We could not understand what he said. 
I went to him and made him lean his head upon 
me as he often did when it ached. He took my 
hand in both of his. 

“You do love the old man a little ? ” he asked, 
in the same tremulous voice. 

“ Indeed I do ! ” I cried, greatly touched by 
his helpless appeal, “ I love you dearly, father. 
And I shall miss you sadly.” 

‘ ‘ Must I go away then, ’ ’ he whispered. “Can- 


276 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


not I stay here till my summons hence? It will 
not be long, it will not be long, my child.” 

With the cry of a hurt animal, Martha sprang 
up and rushed past us into the house. Ernest 
followed her, and we heard them talking together 
a long time. At last Ernest joined us. 

“Father,” he said, “Martha is a good deal 
wounded and disappointed at your reluctance to 
go with her. She threatens to break off her en- 
gagement rather than to be separated from you. 
I really think you would be better off with her 
than with us. You would enjoy country life, 
because it is what you have been accustomed to ; 
you could spend hours of every day in driving 
about ; just what your health requires.” 

Father did not reply. He took Ernest’s arm 
and tottered into the house. Then we had a 
most painful scene. Martha reminded him with 
bitter tears, that her mother had committed him 
to her with her last breath, and set before him 
all the advantages he would have in her house 
over ours. Father sat pale and inflexible, tear 
after tear rolling down his cheeks. Ernest 
looked distressed, and ready to sink. As for me 
I cried with Martha, and with her father by 
turns, and clung to Ernest with a feeling that all 
the foundations of the earth were giving way. 
It came time for evening prayers, and Ernest 
prayed as he rarely does, for he is rarely so 
moved. He quieted us all by a few simple words 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


277 


of appeal to Him who loved us, and father then 
consented to spend the summer with Martha if 
he might call our home his home, and be with 
us through the winter. But this was not till 
long after the rest of us went to bed, and a hard 
battle with Ernest. He says Ernest is his 
favorite child, and that I am his favorite daugh- 
ter, and our children inexpressibly dear to him. 
I am ashamed to write down what he said of me. 
Besides, I am sure there is a wicked, wicked 
triumph over Martha in my secret heart. I am 
too elated with his extraordinary preference for 
us, to sympathize with her mortification and 
grief as I ought. Something whispered that she 
who has never pitied me deserves no pity now. 
But I do not like this mean and narrow spirit in 
mj^self, nay more, I hate and abhor it. 

The marriage took place and they all went off 
together, father’s rigid, white face, whiter, more 
rigid than ever. I am to go to mother’s with 
the children at once. I feel that a great stone 
has been rolled away from before the door of my 
heart ; the one human being who refused me a 
kindly smile, a sympathizing word, has gone, 
never to return. May God go with her and give 
her a happy home, and make her true and lov- 
ing to those motherless little ones ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 


October i. 

I have had a charming summer with dear 
mother; and now have the great joy, so long 
deferred of having her in my own home. Ernest 
has been very cordial about it, and James has 
settled up all her worldly affairs, so that she has 
nothing to do now but to love us and to let 
us love her. It is a pleasant picture to see her 
with my little darlings about her, telling the old 
sweet story she told me so often, and making 
God and Heaven and Christ such blissful reali- 
ties. As I listen, I realize that it is to her I owe 
that early, deep-seated longing to please the 
Eord Jesus, which I never remember as having 
a beginning, or an ending, though it did have 
its fluctations. And it is another pleasant pic- 
ture to see her sit in her own old chair, which 
Ernest was thoughtful enough to have brought 
for her, pondering cheerfully over her Bible and 
her Thomas a Keinpis just as I have seen her do 
ever since I can remember. And there is still a 
third pleasant picture, only that is a new one ; it 
is as she .sits at my right hand at the table, the 
living personification of the blessed gospel of 

(278) 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN WA RD. 


279 


good tidings, with father, opposite, the fading 
image of the law given by Moses. For father 
has come back ; father and all his ailments, his 
pill-boxes, his fits of despair and his fits of dying. 
But he is quiet and gentle and even loving, and 
as he sits in his corner, his Bible on his knees, I 
see how much more he reads the New Testament 
than he used to do, and that the fourteenth chap- 
ter of St. John almost opens to him of itself. 

I must do Martha the justice to sa}^ that her 
absence, while it increases my domestic peace 
and happiness, increases my cares also. What 
with the children, the housekeeping, the thought 
for mother’s little comforts and the concern for 
father’s, I am like a bit of chaff driven before 
the wind, and always in a hurry. There are so 
many stitches to be taken, so many things to 
pass through one’s brain ! Mother says no mor- 
tal woman ought to undertake so much, but 
what can I do ? While Ernest is straining every 
nerve to pay off those debts, I must do all the 
needle work, and we must get along with ser- 
vants whose want of skill makes them willing to 
put up with low wages. Of course I cannot tell 
mother this, and I really believe she thinks I 
scrimp and pinch and overdo out of mere stingi- 
ness. 


Dkc. 30. — Ernest came to me to-day with 

our accounts for the last three months. He look- 


28 o 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


ed quite worried, for him, and asked me if there 
were any expenses we could cut down. 

My heart jumped into my mouth, and I said 
in an irritated way : 

‘ ‘ I am killing myself with over- work now. 
Mother says so. I sew every night till twelve 
o’clock, and I feel all jaded out.” 

“ I did not mean that I wanted you to do any 
more than you are doing now, dear,” he said, 
kindly. “I know you are all jaded out, and 
I look on this state of feverish activity with 
great anxiety. Are all these stitches absolutely 
necessary ! ” 

“You men know nothing about such things,” 
I said, while my conscience pricked me as I 
went on hurrying to finish the fifth tuck in one 
of Una’s little dresses. “ Of course I want my 
children to look decent.” 

Ernest sighed. 

“ I really don’t know what to do,” he said, in 
a hopeless way. “ Father’s persisting in living 
with us is throwing a burden on you, that with 
all your other cares is quite too much for you. 
I see and feel it every day. Don’t you think I 
had better explain this to him and let him go to 
Martha’s ! ” 

“ No, indeed ! ” I said. “He shall stay here 
if it kills me, poor old man ! ” 

Ernest began once more to look over the bills. 
“I don’t know how it is,” he said, “but since 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


281 


Martha has left us our expenses have increased 
a good deal.” 

Now the truth is that when aunty paid me 
most generously for teaching her children, I did 
not dare to offer my earnings to Ernest, lest he 
should be annoyed. So I had quietly used it 
for household expenses, and it had held out till 
about the time of Martha’s marriage. Ernest’s 
injustice was just as painful, just as insufferable 
as if he had known this, and I now burst out 
with whatever my rasped, over-taxed nerves im- 
pelled me to say, like one possessed. 

Ernest was annoyed and surprised. 

“ I thought we had done with these things,” 
he said, and gathering up the papers he went off. 

I rose and locked my door and threw myself 
down upon the floor in an agony of shame, anger, 
and physical exhaustion. I did not know how 
large a part of what seemed mere childish ill- 
temper, was really the cry of exasperated nerves, 
that had been on too strained a tension, and 
silent too long, and Ernest did not know it 
either. How could he ? His profession kept 
him for hours every day in the open air ; there 
were times when his work was done and he 
could take entire rest ; and his health is ab- 
solutely perfect. But I did not make any ex- 
cuse for myself at that moment. I was over- 
whelmed with the sense of my utter unfitness to 
be a wife and a mother. 


282 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Then I heard Ernest try to open the door, and 
finding it locked, he knocked, calling pleasantly, 
“ It is I, darling; let me in.” 

I opened it reluctantly enough. 

“Come,” he said, “put on 3 7 our things and 
drive about with me on my rounds. I have no 
long visits to make, and while I am seeing my 
patients you will be getting the air, which you 
need.” 

“ I do not want to go,” I said. “I do not 
feel well enough. Besides, there is my work.” 

“You can’t see to sew with these red eyes,” 
he declared. “Come! I prescribe a drive, as 
your physician.” 

“Oh, Ernest, how kind, how forgiving you 
are ! ” I cried, running into the arms he held out 
to me. “If 3 7 ou only knew how ashamed, how 
sorry I am ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And if you only knew how ashamed and 
sorry I am ! ” he returned. ‘ ‘ I ought to have 
seen how you were taxing and over-taxing 3 7 our- 
self, doing your own work and Martha’s too. 
It must not go on so.” 

By this time, with a veil over my face, he had 
got me down stairs and out into the air, which 
fanned my fiery cheeks and cooled my heated 
brain. It seemed to me that I have had all this 
tempest about nothing at all, and that with a 
character still so undisciplined, I was utterly un- 
worthy to be either a wife or a mother. But 


STEPPING HEA VENWARD. 283 

when I tried to say so in broken words, Ernest 
comforted me with the gentleness and tenderness 
of a woman. 

“ Your character is not undisciplined, my dar- 
ling,” he said. “Your nervous organism is 
very peculiar, and you have had unusual cares 
and trials from the beginning of our married life. 
I ought not to have confronted you with my 
father’s debts at a moment when you had every 
reason to look forward to freedom from most 
petty economies and cares.” 

“ Don’t say so,” I interrupted. “ If you had 
not told me you had this draft on your resources 
I should have always suspected you of meanness. 
For you know, dear, you have kept me — that is 
.to say — well you could not help it, but I suppose 
men can’t understand how many demands are 
made upon a mother for money almost every 
day. I got along very well till the children 
came, but since then it has been very hard.” 

“Yes,” he said, “I am sure it has. But let 
me finish what I was going to say. I want you 
to make a distinction for yourself, which I make 
for you, between mere ill-temper and the irrita- 
bility that is the result of a goaded state of the 
nerves. Until you do that nothing can be done 
to relieve you from what I am sure distresses 
and grieves you exceedingly. Now, I suppose 
that whenever you speak to me or the children 
in this irritated way you lose your own self- 


284 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


respect, for the time, at least, and feel degraded 
in the sight of God also.” 

“ Oh, Ernest ! there are no words in any lan- 
guage that mean enough to express the anguish 
I feel when I speak quick, impatient words to 
you, the one human being in the universe whom 
I love with all my heart and soul, and to my 
darling little children who are almost as dear ! 
I pray and mourn over it day and night. God 
knows how I hate myself on account of this one 
horrible sin.” 

“ It is a sin only as you deliberately and wil- 
fully fulfil the conditions that lead to such 
results. Now I am sure if you could once make 
up your mind in the fear of God never to under- 
take more work of any sort than you can carry 
on calmly, quietly, without hurry or flurry, and 
the instant you find yourself growing nervous 
and like one out of breath, would stop and take 
breath, you would find this simple, common- 
sense rule doing for you what no prayers or tears 
could ever accomplish. Will you try it for one 
month, my darling?” 

“ But we can’t afford it,” I cried, with almost 
a groan. “Why, you have told me this very 
day that our expenses must be cut down, and 
now you want me to add to them by doing less 
work. But the work must be done. The child- 
ren must be clothed, and there is no end to the 
stitches to be taken for them, and your stock- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


285 


ings must be mended — you make enormous holes 
in them ! and you don’t like it if you ever find a 
button wanting to a shirt or your supply of shirts 
getting low.” 

“ All you say may be very true,” he returned, 

‘ ‘ but I am determined that you shall not be 
driven to desperation as you have been of late.” 

By this time we had reached the house where 
his visit was to be made, and I had nothing to 
do but lean back and revolve all he had been 
saying, over and over again, and to see its rea- 
sonableness while I could not see what was to be 
done for my relief. Ah, I have often felt in 
moments of bitter grief at my impatience with 
my children, that perhaps God pitied more than 
He blamed me for it ! And now my dear hus- 
band was doing the same ! 

When Ernest had finished his visit we drove 
on again in silence. 

At last I asked, “ Do tell me, Ernest, if you 
worked out this problem all by yourself ? ’ ’ 

He smiled a little. 

“ No, I did not. But I have had a patient for 
two or three years whose case has interested me 
a good deal, and for whom I finally prescribed 
just as I have done for you. The thing worked 
like a charm and she is now physically and 
morally quite well.” 

“I dare say her husband is a rich man,” I 
said. 


286 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ He is not as poor as your husband, at any 
rate,” Ernest replied. “ But rich or poor, I am 
determined not to sit looking on while you exert 
yourself .so far beyond 3X>ur strength. Just 
think, dear, suppose for fift3^ or a hundred or two 
hundred dollars a 3^ear 3 r ou could buy a sweet, 
cheerful, quiet tone of mind, would 3 T ou hesitate 
one moment to do so ? And 3^011 can do it if 3 r ou 
will. You are not ///-tempered but qjiick- tem- 
pered ; the irritabilit3^ which anno> 7 s 3 T ou so is a 
physical infirmity which will disappear the 
moment you cease to be goaded into it by that 
exacting mistress 3^011 have hitherto been to 
yourself.” 

All this sounded very plausible while Ernest 
was talking, but the moment I got home I 
snatched up my w r ork from mere force of habit. 

“I may as well finish this as it is begun,” I 
said to myself, and the stitches flew from my 
needle like sparks of fire. Little Ernest came 
and begged for a story, but I put him off. Then 
Una wanted to sit in my lap, but I told her I 
was too bus3 T . In the course of an hour the in- 
fluence of the fresh air and of Ernest’s talk had 
nearty lost their power over me ; my thread kept 
breaking, the children leaned on and tired me, 
the baby woke up and cried, and I got all out of 
patience. 

“Do go away, Ernest,” I said, “and let 
mamma have a little peace. Don’t 3^011 see how 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


287 


busy I am ? Go and play with Una like a good 
boy.” But he would not go, and kept teasing 
Una till she, too, began to cry, and she and baby 
made a regular concert of it. 

14 Oh, dear ! ” I sighed, “ this work will never 
get done ! ” and threw it down impatiently, and 
took the baby impatiently, and began to walk 
up and down with him impatiently. I was not 
willing that this little darling, whom I love so 
dearly, should get through with his nap, and 
interrupt my work ; yet I was displeased with 
myself, and tried by kissing him to make some 
amends for the hasty, unpleasant tones with 
which I had grieved him and frightened the 
other children. This evening Ernest came to 
me with a larger sum of money than he had ever 
given me at one time. 

“Now every cent of this is to be spent,” he 
said, “ in having work done. I know any num- 
ber of poor women who will be thankful to have 
all you can give them.” 

Dear me ! it is easy to talk, and I do feel 
grateful to Ernest for his thoughtfulness and 
kindness. But I am almost in rags, and need 
every cent of this money to make myself decent. 
I am positively ashamed to go anywhere my 
clothes are so shabby. Besides, supposing I 
leave off sewing and all sorts of over-doing of a 
kindred nature, I must nurse my baby, I sup- 
pose, and be up with him nights, and the others 


288 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


will have their cross days and their sick days, 
and father will have his. Alas, there can be for 
me no royal road to a “sweet, cheerful, quiet 
tone of mind ! ” 

Jan. i, 1844. — Mother says Ernest is en- 
tirely right in forbidding my working so hard. 
I must own that I already feel better. I have 
all the time I need to read my Bible, and to pray 
now, and the children do not irritate and annoy 
me as they did. Who knows but I shall 3^et be- 
come quite amiable ? 

Ernest made his father very happ)^ to-day by 
telling him that the last of those wretched debts 
is paid. I think that he might have told me 
that this deliverance was at hand. I did not 
know but we had years of these struggles with 
poverty before us. What with the relief from 
this anxiety, my improved state of health, and 
father’s pleasure, I am in splendid spirits to-day. 
Ernest, too, seems wonderfully cheerful, and we 
both feel that w T e may now look forward to a quiet 
happiness we have never known. With such a 
husband and such children as mine, I ought to be 
the most grateful creature on earth. And I have 
dear mother and James besides. I don’t quite 
know what to think about James’ relation to 
Lucy. He is so brimful and running over with 
happiness that he is also full of fun and of love, 
and after all he may only like her as a cousin. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


289 


Feb. 14. — Father has not been so well of 

late. It seems as if he kept up until he was re- 
lieved about those debts, and then sank down. 
I read to him a good deal, and so does mother, 
but his mind is still dark, and he looks forward 
to the hour of death with painful misgivings. 
He is getting a little childish about my leaving 
him, and clings to me exactly as if I were his 
own child. Martha spends a good deal of time 
with him, and fusses over him in a way that I 
w r onder she does not see is annoying to him. He 
wants to be read to, to hear a hymn sung or a 
verse repeated, and to be left otherwise in perfect 
quiet. But she is continually pulling out and 
shaking up his pillows, bathing his head in hot 
vinegar and soaking his feet. It looks so odd to 
see her in one of the elegant silk dresses old Mr. 
Underhill makes her wear, with her sleeves 
rolled up, the skirt hid away under a large apron, 
rubbing away at poor father till it seems as if 
his tired soul would fly out of him. 

Feb. 20. — Father grows weaker every 

day. Ernest has sent for his other children, 
John and Helen. Martha is no longer able to 
come here ; her husband is very sick with a 
fever, and cannot be left alone. No doubt he 
enjoys her bustling way of nursing, and likes to 
have his pillows pushed from under him every 
five minutes. I am afraid I feel glad that she is 


290 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


kept away, and that I have father all to myself. 
Ernest never was so fond of me as he is now. 
I don’t know what to make of it. 

Feb. 22. — John and his wife and Helen 

have come. They stay at Martha’s where there 
is plenty of room. John’s wife is a little soft 
dumpling of a thing, and looks up to him as a 
mouse would look up at a steeple. He strikes 
me as a very selfish man. He steers straight 
for the best seat, leaving her standing, if need 
be, accepts her humble attentions with the air 
of one collecting his just debts, and is continu- 
ally snubbing and setting her right. Yet in 
some things he is very like Ernest, and perhaps 
a wife destitute of self-assertion and without 
much individuality would have spoiled him as 
Harriet has spoiled John. For I think it must 
be partly her fault that he dares to be so ego- 
tistical. Helen is the dearest, prettiest creature 
I ever saw. Oh, why would James have taken 
a fancy to Lucy ! I feel the new delight of 
having a sister to love and admire. And she 
will love me in time ; I feel sure of it. 

March i. — Father is very feeble and in 

great mental distress. He gropes about in the 
dark, and shudders at the approach of death. 
We can do nothing but pray for him. And the 
cloud will be lifted when he leaves this world if 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 291 

not before. For I know he is a good, yes, a 
saintly man, dear to God and dear to Christ. 

March 4. — Dear father has gone. We 

were all kneeling and praying and weeping 
around him, when suddenly he called me to 
come to him. I went and let him lean his head 
on my breast, as he loved to do. Sometimes 
I have stood by the hour together ready to 
sink with fatigue, and only kept up with the 
thought that if this were my own precious 
father’s bruised head I could stand and hold 
it forever. 

“Daughter Katherine,” he said, in his faint, 
tremulous way, “ }^ou have come with me to the 
very brink of the river. I thank God for all 
your cheering words and ways. I thank God 
for giving you to be a helpmeet to my son. 
Farewell, now,” he added in a low, firm voice, 
“ I feel the bottom, and it is good.” 

He lay back on his pillow looking upward 
with an expression of seraphic peace and joy on 
his worn, meagre face and so his life passed 
gently away. 

Oh, the affluence of God’s payments! What 
a recompense for the poor love I had given my 
husband’s father, and the poor little services I 
had rendered him ! Oh, that I had never been 
impatient with him, never smiled at his pecu- 
liarities, never in my secret heart felt him unwel- 


292 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


come to my home ! And how wholly I over- 
looked, in my blind selfishness, what he must 
have suffered in feeling himself homeless, dwell- 
ing with us only on sufferance, but master and 
head nowhere on earth ! May God carry these 
lessons home to my heart of hearts, and make 
this cloud of mingled remorse and shame which 
now envelops me, to descend in showers of love 
and benediction on every human soul that mine 
can bless ! 


CHAPTER XX. 


April. 

I have had a new lesson which has almost 
broken my heart. In looking over his father’s 
papers, Ernest found a little journal, brief in its 
records indeed, but we learn from it that on all 
those wedding and birthdays, when I fancied his 
austere religion made him hold aloof from our 
merry-making, he was spending the time in fast- 
ing and praying for us and for our children ! 
Oh, shall I ever learn the sweet charity that 
thinketh no evil and believeth all things ! What 
blessings may not have descended upon us and 
our children through those prayers ! What evils 
may they not have warded off ! Dear old father ! 
Oh, that I could once more put my loving arms 
about him and bid him welcome to our home ! 
And how gladly would I now confess to him all 
my unjust judgments concerning him and entreat 
his forgiveness! Must life always go on thus? 
Must I always be erring, ignorant and blind? 
How I hate this arrogant sweeping past my 
brother man; this utter ignoring of his hidden life! 

I now see that it is well for mother that she 

did not come to live with me at the beginning 

(293) 


294 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN JVA PE. 


of my married life. I should not have borne 
with her little peculiarities, nor have made her 
half so happy as I can now. I thank God that 
my varied disappointments and discomforts, my 
feeble health, my poverty, my mortifications 
have done me some little good, and driven me 
to Him a thousand times because I could not get 
along without His help. But I am not satisfied 
with my state in His sight. I am sure some- 
thing is lacking though I know not what it is. 

May. — Helen is going to stay here and 

live with Martha. How glad, how enchanted I 
am ! Old Mr. Underhill is getting well ; I saw 
him to-day. He can talk of nothing but his ill- 
ness, of Martha’s wonderful skill in nursing 
him, declaring that he owes his life to her. I 
felt a little piqued at this speech, because Ernest 
was very attentive to him, and no doubt did 
his share towards the cure. We have fitted 
up father’s room for a nursery. Hitherto 
all the children have had to sleep in our 
room, which has been bad for them and bad 
for us. I have been so afraid they would keep 
Ernest awake if they were unwell and restless. 

I have secured an excellent nurse, who is as 
fresh and blooming as the flower whose name 
she bears. The children are already attached 
to her, and I feel that the worst of my life is 


now over. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


295 


Junk. — Tittle Ernest was taken sick on 

the very day I wrote that. The attack was fear- 
fully sudden and violent. He is still very, very 
ill. I have not forgotten that I once said that I 
would give my children to God should He ask 
for them. And I will. But, oh, this agony of 
suspense ! It eats into my very soul and eats it 
away. Oh, my little Ernest ! My first-born 
son ! My pride, my joy, my hope ! And I 
thought the worst of my life was over ! 

August. — We have come into the country 

with what God has left us, our two youngest 
children. Yes, I have tasted the bitter cup of 
bereavement, and drunk it down to its dregs. I 
gave my darling to God, I gave him, I gave 
him ! But, oh, with what anguish I saw those 
round, dimpled limbs wither and waste away, 
the glad smile fade forever from that beautiful 
face ! What a fearful thing it is to be a mother ! 
But I have given my child to God. I would 
not recall him if I could. I am thankful He 
has counted me worthy to present Him so costly 
a gift. 

I cannot shed a tear, and I must find relief in 
writing, or I shall lose my senses. My noble, 
beautiful boy ! My first-born son ! And to 
think that my delicate little Una still lives, and 
that death has claimed that bright, glad creature 
who was the sunshine of our home ! 


296 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


But let me not forget my mercies. Let me 
not forget that I have a precious husband and 
two darling children, and my kind, sympathizing 
mother still left to me. Let me not forget how 
many kind friends gathered about us in our sor- 
row. Above all let me remember God’s loving- 
kindness and tender mercy. He has not left us 
to the bitterness of a grief that refuses and dis- 
dains to be comforted. We believe in Him, w T e 
love Him, w r e worship Him, as w 7 e never did be- 
fore. 

My dear Ernest has felt this sorrow to his 
heart’s core. But he has not for one moment 
questioned the goodness or the love of our 
Father in thus taking from us the child who 
promised to be our greatest earthly joy. Our 
consent to God’s will has drawn us together 
very closely ; together we bear the yoke in our 
youth, together we pray and sing praises in the 
very midst of our tears. ‘ ‘ I was dumb with 
silence because Thou didst it.” 

Sept. — The old pain and cough have 

come back with the first cool nights of this 
month. Perhaps I am going to my darling — I 
do not know. I am certainly very feeble. Con- 
senting to suffer does not annul the suffering. 
Such a child could not go hence without rending 
and tearing its way out of the heart that loved 
it. This world is wholly changed to me and I 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


297 


walk in it like one in a dream. And dear Ernest 
is changed, too. He says little and is all kind- 
ness and goodness to me, but I can see that here 
is a wound that will never be healed. 

I am confined to my room now with nothing 
to do but to think, think, think. I do not be- 
lieve that God has taken our child in mere dis- 
pleasure, but I cannot but feel that this affliction 
might not have been necessary if I had not so 
chafed and writhed, and secretly repined at the 
way in which my home was invaded, and at our 
galling poverty. God has exchanged the one 
discipline for the other ; and, oh, how far more 
bitter is this cup ! 

Oct. 4. — My darling boy would have 

been six years old to-day. Ernest still keeps me 
shut up, but he rather urges my seeing a friend 
now and then. People say very strange things 
in the way of consolation. I begin to think that 
a tender clasp of the hand is about all one can 
give to the afflicted. One says I must not 
grieve, because my child is better off in heaven. 
Yes he is better off; I know it, I feel it, but I 
miss him none the less. Others say he might 
have grown up to be a bad man and broken my 
heart. Perhaps he might, but I cannot make 
myself believe that likely. One lady asked me 
if this affliction was not a rebuke to my idolatry 
of my darling ; and another if I had not been in 


298 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


a cold, worldly state, needing this severe blow 
on that account. 

But I find no consolation or support in these 
remarks. My comfort is in the perfect faith in 
the goodness and love of my Father, my cer- 
tainty that He had a reason in thus afflicting me 
that I should admire and adore if I knew what it 
was. And in the midst of my sorrow I have had, 
and do have a delight in Him hitherto unknown, 
so that sometimes this room in which I am a 
prisoner seems like the very gate of heaven. 

May. — A long winter in my room and 

all sorts of painful remedies and appliances and 
deprivations. And now I am getting well, and 
drive out every day. Martha sends her carriage, 
and mother goes with me. Dear mother ! How 
nearly perfect she is ! I never saw a sweeter 
face, nor ever heard sw T eeter expressions of faith 
in God, and love to all about her, than hers. 
She has been my tower of strength all through 
these weary months, and yet she has shared my 
sorrow and made it her own. 

I can see that dear Ernest’s affliction and 
this prolonged anxiety about me have been a 
heavenly benediction to him. I am sure that 
every mother whose sick child he visits, will 
have a sympathy he could not have given while 
all our little ones were alive and well. I thank 
God that he has thus increased my dear hus- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


299 


band’s usefulness, as I think that He has mine 
also. How tenderly I already feel towards all 
suffering children, and how easy it will be now 
to be patient with them ! 

Keene, N. H., July 12. — It is a year ago 
this day that the brightest sunshine faded out of 
our lives, and our beautiful boy was taken from 
us. I have been tempted to spend this anniver- 
sary in bitter tears and lamentations. For, oh, 
this sorrow is not healed by time ! I feel it 
more and more. But I begged God w 7 hen I first 
awoke this morning not to let me so dishonor 
and grieve Him. I may suffer, I must suffer, 
He means it, He walls it, but let it be without 
repining, without gloomy despondency. The 
w r orld is full of sorrow ; it is not I alone who 
taste its bitter draughts, nor have I the only 
right to a sad countenance. Oh, for patience to 
bear it, cost wdiat it may ! 

“ Cheerfully and gratefully I lay myself and 
all I am or own, at the feet of Him who redeemed 
me with His precious blood, engaging to follow 
Him; bearing the cross He lays upon me.” 
This is the least I can do, and I do it while my 
heart lies broken and bleeding at His feet. 

My dear little Una has improved somewhat in 
health, but I am never free from anxiety about 
her. She is my milk-white lamb, my dove, my 
fragrant flower. One cannot look in her pure 


300 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


face without a sense of peace and rest. She is 
the sentinel who voluntarily guards my door 
when I am engaged at my devotions ; she is my 
little comforter when I am sad ; my companion 
and friend at all times. I talk to her of Christ, 
and always have done, just as I think of Him, 
and as if I expected sympathy from her in my 
love to Him. It was the same with my darling 
Ernest. If I required a little self-denial, I said, 
cheerfully, ‘ ‘ This is hard, but doing it for our 
best Friend, sweetens it,” and their alacrity was 
pleasant to see. Ernest threw his whole soul 
into whatever he did, and sometimes when en- 
gaged in play would hesitate a little when 
directed to do something else, such as carrying a 
message for me, and the like. But if I said, “ If 
you do this cheerfully and pleasantly, my dar- 
ling, you do it for Jesus, and that will make him 
smile upon you,” he would invariably yield at 
once. 

Is not this the true, the natural way of linking 
every little daily act of a child’s life with that 
Divine Love, that Divine Fife which gives mean- 
ing to all things? 

But what do I mean by the vain boast that I 
have always trained rr^ children thus ? Alas ! 
I have done it only at times ; for while my theory 
was sound, my temper of mind was too often 
unsound. I was often and often impatient with 
my dear little boy ; often my tone was a worldly 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN WA RD. 


301 


one ; I was often full of eager interest in mere 
outside things, and forgot that I was living or 
that my children were living save for the present 
moment. 

It seems now that I have a child in heaven, 
and am bound to the invisible world by such 
a tie, that I can never again be entirely absorbed 
by this. 

I fancy my ardent, eager little boy as having 
some such employments in his new and happy 
home as he had here. I see him loving Him 
who took children in His arms and blessed them, 
with all the warmth of which his nature is 
capable, and as perhaps employed as one of those 
messengers whom God sends forth as His minis- 
ters. For I cannot think of those active feet, 
those busy hands as always quiet. Ah, my 
darling, that I could look in upon you for a 
moment, a single moment, and catch one of your 
radiant smiles ; just one ! 

August 4. — How full are David’s Psalms 

of the cry of the sufferer ! He must have ex- 
perienced every kind of bodily and mental tor- 
ture. He gives most vivid illustrations of the 
wasting, wearing process of disease. For in- 
stance, what a contrast is the picture we have 
of him when he was “ruddy, and withal of a 
beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to,” 
and the one he paints of himself in after years, 


302 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


when he says, “I may tell all my bones, they 
look and stare upon me ; my days are like a 
shadow that declineth, and I am withered like 
grass. I am weary with groaning ; all the night 
make I my bed to swim ; I water my couch with 
my tears. For my soul is full of troubles ; and 
my life draweth near unto the grave.” 

And then what wails of anguish are these ! 

“I am afflicted, and ready to die from 
my youth up ; while I suffer thy terrors I am 
distracted. Thy wrath lieth hard upon 
me and thou hast afflicted me with all thy 
waves. All thy waves and thy billows have 
gone over me. Lover and friend hast thou put 
far from me, and mine acquaintance into utter 
darkness.” 

Yet through it all what grateful joy in God, 
what expressions of living faith and devotion ! 
During my long illness and confinement to my 
room, the Bible has been almost a new book to 
me, and I see that God has always dealt with 
His children as He deals with them now, and 
that no new thing has befallen me. All these 
weary days so full of languor, these nights so 
full of unrest, have had their appointed mission 
to my soul. And perhaps I have had no dis- 
cipline so salutary as this forced inaction and 
uselessness, at a time when youth and natural 
energy continually cried out for more room and 
work. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


303 


August 15. — I dragged out my drawing 

materials in a listless way this morning, and 
began to sketch the beautiful scene from my 
window. At first I could not feel interested. 
It seemed as if my hand was crippled and lost 
its cunning when it unloosed its grasp of little 
Ernest and let him go. But I prayed, as I 
worked, that I might not yield to the inclina- 
tion to despise and throw away the gift with 
which God has Himself endow r ed me. Mother 
was gratified and said it rested her to see me 
act like myself once more. Ah, I have been 
very selfish, and have been far too much ab- 
sorbed with my sorrow and my illness and my 
own petty struggles. 

August 19. — I met to-day an old friend, 

Maria Kelly, who is married, it seems, and set- 
tled down in this pretty village. She asked so 
many questions about my little Ernest that I had 
to tell her the whole story of his precious life, 
sickness, and death. I forced myself to do this 
quietly, and without any great demand on her 
sympathies. My reward for the constraint I 
thus put upon myself was the abrupt question : 

“ Haven’t you grown stoical ? ” 

I felt the angry blood rush through my veins 
as it has not done in a long time. My pride was 
wounded to the quick, and those cruel, unjust 
words still rankle in my heart. This is not as it 


304 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


should be. I am constantly praying that my 
pride may be humbled, and then when it is 
attacked, I shrink from the pain the blow causes, 
and am angry with the hand that inflicts it. It 
is just so with two or three unkind things Martha 
has said to me. I can’t help brooding over them 
and feeling stung with their injustice, even while 
making the most desperate struggle to rise above 
and forget them. It is well for our fellow- 
creatures that God forgives and excuses them, 
when we fail to do it, and I can easily fancy that 
poor Maria Kelly is at this moment dearer in His 
sight than I am who have taken fire at a chance 
word. And I can see now, what I wonder I did 
not see at the time, that God was dealing very 
kindly and wisely with me when he made Martha 
overlook my good qualities, of which I suppose 
I have some, as everybody else has, and call out 
all my bad ones, since the ax was thus laid at 
the root of self-love. And it is plain that self- 
love cannot die without a fearful struggle. 

May 26, 1846. — How long it is since I 

have written in my journal ! We have had a 
winter full of cares, perplexities and sicknesses. 
Mother began it by such a severe attack of 
inflammatory rheumatism as I could not have 
supposed she could live through. Her sufferings 
were dreadful, and I might almost say her 
patience was, for I often thought it would be 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


305 


less painful to hear her groan and complain, than 
to witness such heroic fortitude, such sweet 
docility under God’s hand. I hope I shall never 
forget the lessons I have learned in her sick- 
room. Ernest says he never shall cease to 
rejoice that she lives with us, and that he can 
watch over her health. He has indeed been like 
a son to her, and this has been a great solace 
amid all her sufferings. Before she w T as able to 
leave the room, poor little Una was prostrated 
by one of her ill turns, and is still very feeble. 
The only way in which she can be diverted is by 
reading to her, and I have done little else these 
two months but hold her in my arms, singing 
little songs and hymns, telling stories and read- 
ing what few books I can find that are unexcit- 
ing, simple, yet entertaining. My precious 
little darling ! She bears the yoke in her youth 
without a frown, but it is agonizing to see her 
suffer so. How much easier it would be to bear 
all her physical infirmities myself ! I suppose to 
those who look on from the outside, we must 
appear like a most unhappy family, since we 
hardly get free from one trouble before another 
steps in. But I see more and more that happi- 
ness is not dependent on health or any other 
outside prosperity. We are at peace with each 
other and at peace with God ; His dealings with 
us do not perplex or puzzle us, though we do 
not pretend to understand them. On the other 


3°6 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


hand, Martha, with absolutely perfect health, 
with a husband entirely devoted to her, and with 
every wish gratified, yet seems always careworn 
and dissatisfied. Her servants worry her very 
life out ; she misses the homely household duties 
to which she has been accustomed ; and her 
conscience stumbles at little things, and over- 
looks greater ones. It is very interesting, I 
think, to study different homes, as well as the 
different characters that form them. 

Amelia’s little girls are quiet, good children, 
to whom their father writes what Mr. Underhill 
and Martha pronounce “beautiful” letters, 
wherein he always styles himself their ‘ ‘ broken- 
hearted but devoted father.” “Devotion,” to 
my mind, involves self-sacrifice, and I cannot 
reconcile its use, in this case, with the life of 
ease he leads, while all the care of his children 
is thrown upon others. But some people, by 
means of a few such phrases, not only impose 
upon themselves but upon their friends, and pass 
for persons of great sensibility. 

As I have been confined to the house nearly 
the whole winter, I have had to derive my 
spiritual support from books, and as mother 
gradually recovered, she enjoyed Leighton with 
me, as I knew she would. Dr. Cabot comes to 
see us very often, but I do not now find it possi- 
ble to get the instruction from him I used to do. 
I see that the Christian life must be individual, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


307 


as the natural character is — and that I cannot be 
exactly like Dr. Cabot, or exactly like Mrs. 
Campbell, or exactly like mother, though they 
all three .stimulate and are an inspiration to me. 
But I see, too, that the great points of similarity 
in Christ’s disciples have always been the same. 
This is the testimony of all the good books, 
sermons, hymns, and memoirs I read — that 
God’s ways are infinitely perfect ; that we are 
to love Him for what He is, and therefore 
equally as much when He afflicts as when He 
prospers us ; that there is no real happiness but 
in doing and suffering His will, and that this 
life is but a scene of probation through which 
we pass to the real life above. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


May 30. 

Ernest asked me to go with him to see one 
of his patients, as he often does when there is a 
lull in the tempest at home. We both feel that 
as we have so little money of our own to give 
away, it is a privilege to give what services and 
what cheering words we can. As I took it for 
granted that we were going to see some poor old 
woman, I put up several little packages of tea 
and sugar, with which Susan Green always 
keeps me supplied, and added a bottle of my own 
raspberry vinegar, which never comes amiss, I 
find, to old people. Ernest drove to the door of 
an aristocratic-looking house, and helped me to 
alight in his usual silence. 

“It is probably one of the servants we are 
going to visit,” I thought within myself ; “ but 
I am surprised at his bringing me. The family 
may not approve it.” 

The next thing I knew I found myself being 
introduced to a beautiful, brilliant young lady, 
who sat in a wheel-chair like a queen on a throne 
in a room full of tasteful ornaments, flowers and 
birds. Now I had come away just as I was, 

(308) 


STEPPING HE A VENIVARD. 


309 


when Ernest called me, and that “was" means 
a very plain gingham dress wherein I had been 
darning stockings all the morning. I suppose a 
saint wouldn’t have cared for that, but / did, 
and for a moment stood the picture of confusion, 
my hands full of oddly shaped parcels, and my 
face all in a flame. 

“ My wife, Miss Clifford,” I heard Ernest say, 
and then I caught the curious, puzzled look in her 
eyes, which said as plainly as words could do. 

‘ ‘ What has the creature brought me ? ’ ’ 

“I ask your pardon, Miss Clifford,” I said, 
thinking it best to speak out just the honest 
truth, “but I supposed the doctor was taking 
me to see some one of his old women, and so I 
have brought you a little tea, and a little sugar, 
and a bottle of raspberry vinegar ! ’ ’ 

“ How delicious !” cried she. “ It really rests 
me to meet with a genuine human being at last ! 
Why didn’t you make some stiff, prim speech, 
instead of telling the truth out and out ? I de- 
clare I mean to keep all you have brought me, 
just for the fun of the thing.” 

This put me at ease, and I forgot all about my 
dress in a moment. 

“I see you are just what the doctor boasted 
you were,” she went on. “ But he never would 
bring you to see me before. I suppose he has 
told you why I could not go to see you ? ” 

“ To tell the truth, he never speaks to me of 


3 IQ 


S TEPPING HE A VEN IV A RD. 


his patients unless he thinks I can be of use to 
them.” 

“I dare say I do not look much like an in- 
valid,” said she ; “but here I am, tied to this 
chair. It is six months since I could bear my 
own weight upon my feet.” 

I saw then that though her face was so bright 
and full of color, her hand was thin and trans- 
parent. But what a picture she made as she sat 
there in her magnificent beauty, relieved by 
such a background of foliage, flowers, and 
artistic objects ! 

‘ ‘ I told the doctor the other day that life was 
nothing but a humbug, and he said he should 
bring me a remedy against that false notion the 
next time he came, and you, I suppose, are that 
remedy,” she continued. “ Come, begin ; I am 
ready to take any number of doses.” 

I could only laugh and try to look daggers at 
Ernest, who sat looking over a magazine, appar- 
ently absorbed in its contents. 

“Ah!” she cried, nodding her head saga- 
ciously, “ I knew you would agree with me.” 

“ Agree with you in calling life a humbug ! ” 
I cried, now fairly aroused. ‘ ‘ Death itself is 
not more a reality ! ” 

“ I have not tried death yet,” she said, more 
seriously; “but I have tried life twenty-five 
years, and I know all about it. It is eat, drink, 
sleep, yawn and be bored. It is wdiat shall I 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN W A PD. 3 1 1 

wear, where shall I go, how shall I get rid of the 
time ; it says, ‘ How do you do ? how is your 
husband? How are your children?’ — it means, 

‘ Now I have asked all the conventional ques- 
tions, and I don’t care a fig what their answer 
may be.’ ” 

“ This may be its meaning to some persons,” 
I replied, “for instance, to mere pleasure-seek- 
ers. But of course it is interpreted quite differ- 
ently by others. To some it means nothing but 
a dull, hopeless struggle with poverty and hard- 
ship — and its whole aspect might be changed to 
them, should those who do not know what to do 
to get rid of the time, spend their surplus leisure 
in making this struggle less brutalizing.” 

“ Yes, I have heard such doctrine, and at one 
time I tried charity myself. I picked up a dozen 
or so of dirty little wretches out of the streets, 
and undertook to clothe and teach them. I 
might as well have tried to instruct the chairs in 
my room. Besides the whole house had to be 
aired after they had gone, and mamma missed 
two teaspoons and a fork, and was perfectly 
disgusted with the whole thing. Then I fell to 
knitting socks for babies, but they only occupied 
my hands, and my head felt as empty as ever. 
Mamma took me off on a journey, as she always 
did when I took to moping, and that diverted 
me for a while. But after that everything went 
on in the old way. I got rid of part of the day 


312 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


by changing my dress, and putting on my pretty 
things — it is a great thing to have a habit of 
wearing one’s ornaments, for instance ; and then 
in the evening one could go to the opera or the 
theater, or some other place of amusement, after 
which one could sleep all through the next 
morning, and so get rid of that. But I had been 
used to such things all my life, and they had got 
to be about as flat as flat can be. If I had been 
born a little earlier in the history of the world, I 
would have gone into a convent ; but that sort of 
thing is out of fashion now.” 

“ The best convent,” I said, “for a woman, is the 
seclusion of her own home. There she may find 
her vocation and fight her battles, and there she 
may learn the reality and earnestness of life.” 
“Pshaw!” cried she. “Excuse me, how- 
ever, for saying that ; but some of the most 
brilliant girls I know have settled down into 
mere married women, and spend their whole 
time in nursing babies ; Think how belittling ! ” 
“ Is it more so than spending it in dressing, 
driving, dancing and the like? ” 

‘ ‘ Of course it is. I had a friend once who shone 
like a star in society. She married, and had four 
children as fast as she could. Well ! what was 
the consequence? She lost her beauty, lost her 
spirit and animation, lost her youth, and lost her 
health. The only earthly things she can talk 
about are teething, dieting and the measles ! ” 


5 TEPPING HEA VEN IV A RD. 


313 


I laughed at this exaggeration, and looked 
round to see what Ernest thought of such talk. 
But he had disappeared. 

As you have spoken plainly to me, knowing 
me to be a wife and a mother, you must allow 
me to speak plainly in return,” I began. 

“Oh, speak plainly, by all means! I am 
quite sick and tired of having truth served up in 
pink cotton, and scented with lavender.” 

“Then you wall permit me to say that when 
you speak contemptuously of the vocation of 
maternity, you dishonor, not only the mother 
who bore you, but the Eord Jesus Himself, who 
chose to be born of woman, and to be ministered 
unto by her through a helpless infancy.” 

Miss Clifford was a little startled. 

“ How terribly in earnest you are !” she said. 
“It is plain that to you, at any rate, life is in- 
deed no humbug.” 

I thought of my dear ones, of Ernest, of my 
children, of mother and of James, and I thought 
of my love to them and of theirs to me. And I 
thought of Him who alone gives reality to even 
such joys as these. My face must have been 
illuminated by the thought, for she dropped the 
bantering tone she had used hitherto, and asked, 
with real earnestness : “What is it you know, 

and that I do not know, that makes you so satis- 
fied, while I am so dissatisfied? ” 

I hesitated before I answered, feeling as I 


3 1 4 STEPPING HE A VENIVARD. 

never felt before, how ignorant, how unfit to 
lead others, I really am. Then I said : “ Per- 

haps you need to know God,, to know Christ ? ” 
She looked disappointed and tired. So I 
came away, first promising, at her request, to 
go to see her again. I found Ernest just driving 
up, and told him what had passed. He listened 
in his usual silence, and I longed to have him 
say whether I had spoken wisely and well. 

— — Junk i. — I have been to see Miss Clifford 

» 

again, and made mother go with me. Miss 
Clifford took a fancy to her at once. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, after one glance at the dear, 
loving face, “ nobody need tell me that you are 
good and kind. But I am a little afraid of good 
people. I fancy they are always criticising me 
and expecting me to imitate their perfection.” 
“Perfection does not exact perfection,” was 
mother’s answer. “I would rather be judged 
by an angel than by a man.” And then mother 
led her on, little by little, and most adroitly, to 
talk of herself, and of her state of health. She 
is an orphan, and lives in this great, stately 
house alone with her servants. Until she was 
laid aside by the state of her health, she lived in 
the world and of it. Now she is a prisoner, and 
prisoners have time to think. 

“Here I sit,” she said, “all day long. I 
never was fond of staying at home, or of reading, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


315 


and needle-work I absolutely hate. In fact, I 
do not know how to sew.” 

Some such pretty, feminine work might 
beguile you of a few of the long hours of these 
long days,” said mother. “ One can’t be always 
reading.” 

‘ ‘ But a lady came to see me, a Mrs. Goodhue, 
one of your good sort, I suppose, and she 
preached me quite a sermon on the employment 
of time. She said I had a solemn admonition of 
Providence, and ought to devote myself entirely 
to religion. I had just begun to be interested 
in a bit of embroidery, but she frightened me out 
of it. But I can’t bear such dreadfully good 
people, with faces a mile long.” 

Mother made her produce the collar, or what- 
ever it was, showed her how to hold her needle and 
arrange her pattern, and they both got so absorbed 
in it that I had leisure to look at some of the 
beautiful things with which the room was full. 

“ Make the object of your life right,” I heard 
mother say, at last, “ and these little details will 
take care of themselves.” 

“ But I haven’t any object,” Miss Clifford 
objected, “unless it is to get through these 
tedious days, some how. Before I was taken ill, 
my chief object was to make myself attractive to 
the people I met. And the easiest way to do 
that was to dress becomingly and make myself 
look as well as I could.” 


3 l6 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“I suppose,” said mother, “that most girls 
could say the same. They have an instinctive 
desire to please, and they take what they con- 
ceive to be the shortest and easiest road to that 
end. It requires no talent, no education, no 
thought to dress tastefully ; the most empty- 
hearted, frivolous young person can do it, pro- 
vided she has money enough. Those who can’t 
get the money make up for it by a fearful expen- 
diture of precious time. They plan, they cut, 
they fit, they rip, they trim till they can appear 
in society looking exactly like everybody else. 
They think of nothing, talk of nothing, but how 
this shall be fashioned, and that be trimmed ; 
and as to their hair, Satan uses it as his favorite 
net, and catches them in it every day of their 
lives.” 

“But I never cut or trimmed,” said Miss 
Clifford. 

“No, because you could afford to have it done 
for you. But you acknowledge that you spent 
a great deal of time in dressing because you 
thought that the easiest way of making yourself 
attractive. But it does not follow that the easiest 
way is the best way, and sometimes the longest 
way round is the shortest w T ay home.” 

“For instance? ” 

“Well, let us imagine a young lady, living in 
the world as you say you lived. She has never 
seriously reflected on any subject one half hour 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 3 1 7 

in her life. She has been borne on by the cur- 
rent, and let it take her where it would. But at 
last some influence is brought to bear upon her 
which leads her to stop, to look about her and to 
think. She finds herself in a world of serious, 
momentous events. She sees that she cannot 
live in it, was not meant to live in it forever, 
and that her whole unknown future depends on 
7vhat she is , not on how she looks. She begins to 
cast about for some plan of life, and this leads — ” 
“A plan of life!” Miss Clifford interrupted. 
“ I never heard of such a thing.” 

“Yet you would smile at an architect, who, 
having a noble structure to build, should begin 
to work on it in a hap-hazard way, putting in a 
brick here and a stone there, weaving in straws 
and sticks if they come to hand, and when asked 
on what work he was engaged, and what manner 
of building he intended to erect, should reply 
he had no plan, but thought something would 
come of it.” 

Miss Clifford made no reply. She sat with 
her head resting on her hand, looking dreamily 
before her, a truly beautiful, but unconscious 
picture. I, too, began to reflect, that while I 
had really aimed to make the most out of life, I 
had not done it methodically or intelligently. 

We are going to try to stay in town this sum- 
mer. Hitherto Ernest would not listen to my 
suggestion of what an economy this would be. 


3 1 8 STEPPING HEA VENIVARD. 

He always said this would turn out to be any- 
thing but an economy in the end. But now we 
have no teething baby ; little Raymond is a 
strong, healthy child, and Una remarkably well 
for her, and money is so slow to come in and so 
fast to go out. What discomforts we suffer in 
the country it would take a book to write down, 
and here we shall have our own home, as usual. 
I shall not have to be separated from Ernest, 
and shall have leisure to devote to two very in- 
teresting people who must stay in town all the 
year round, no matter who goes out of it. I 
mean dear Mrs. Campbell and Miss Clifford, who 
both attract me, though in such different ways. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


October. 

Well, I had my own way, and I am afraid it 
has been an unwise one. For though I have en- 
joyed the leisure afforded by everybody being 
out of town and the opporiunity it has given me 
to devote myself to the very sweetest work on 
earth, the care of my darling little ones, the 
heat and the stifling atmosphere have been try- 
ing for me and for them. My pretty Rose went 
last May to bloom in a home of her own, so I 
thought I would not look for a nurse, but take 
the whole care of them myself. This would not 
be much of a task to a strong person, but I am 
not strong, and a great deal of the time just 
dressing them and taking them out to walk has 
exhausted me. Then all the mending and other 
sewing must be done, and with the over exertion 
creeps in the fretful tone, the impatient word. 
Yet I never can be as impatient with little 
children as I should be, but for the remem- 
brance that I should count it only a joy to 
minister once more to my darling boy, cost 
what weariness it might. 

But now new cares are at hand, and I have 

(319) 


320 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


been searching for a person to whom I can safely 
trust my children when I am laid aside. Thus 
far I have had, in this capacity, three different 
Temptations in human form. 

The first, a smart, tidy-looking woman, in- 
formed me at the outset that she was perfectly 
competent to take the whole charge of the child- 
ren, and should prefer my attending to my own 
affairs while she attended to hers. 

I replied that my affairs lay chiefly in caring 
for and being with my children ; to which she 
returned that she feared I should not suit her, 
as she had her own views concerning the train- 
ing of children. She added, with condescension, 
that at all events she should expect in any case 
of difference (of judgment) between us, that I, 
being the younger and least experienced of 
the two, should always yield to her. Then she 
went on to give me her views on the subject of 
nursery management. 

“In the first place,” she said, “I never pet 
or fondle children. It makes them babyish and 
sickly.” 

“Oh, I see you will not suit me,” I cried. 
“You need go no further. I consider love the 
best educator for a little child.” 

“Indeed, I think I shall suit you perfectly,” 
she replied, nothing daunted. “I have been 
in the business twenty years, and have always 
suited wherever I lived. You will be surprised 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


3 21 


to see how much sewing I shall accomplish, and 
how quiet I shall keep the children.” 

“But I don’t want them kept quiet,” I per- 
sisted. “I want them to be as merry and 
cheerful as crickets, and I care a good deal more 
to have them amused than to have the sewing- 
done, though that is important, I confess.” 
“Very well, ma’am, I will sit and rock them 
by the hour if you wish it.” 

“But I don’t wish it,” I cried, exasperated 
at the coolness which gave her such an advan- 
tage over me. ‘ * Let us say no more about it ; 
you do not suit me, and the sooner we part 
the better. I must be mistress of my own 
house, and I want no advice in relation to my 
children.” 

“I shall hardly leave you before you will 
regret parting with me,” she returned in a placid, 
pitying way. 

I was afraid I had not been quite dignified in 
my interview with this person, with w r hom I 
ought to have had no discussion, and my equani- 
mity was not restored by her shaking hands with 
me in a patronizing way at parting, and express- 
ing the hope that I should one day “be a green 
tree in the Paradise of God.” Nor was it any 
too great a consolation to find that she had sug- 
gested to my cook that my intellect was not 
quite sound. 

Temptation the second, confessed that she 


322 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 

knew nothing, blit was willing to be taught. 
Yes, she might be willing, but she could not be 
taught. She could not see why Herbert should 
not have everything he chose to cry for, nor 
why she should not take the children to the 
kitchens where her friends abode, instead of 
keeping them out in the air. She could not 
understand why she must not tell Una every 
half hour that she was as fair as a lily, and that 
the little angels in heaven cried for such hair as 
hers. And there w 7 as no rhyme or reason, to 
her mind, why she could not have her friends 
visit in her nursery, since, as she declared, the 
cook would hear all her secrets if she received 
them in the kitchen. Her assurance that she 
thought me a very nice lady, and that there 
never were two such children as mine, failed to 
move my hard heart, and I was thankful when 
I got her out of the house. 

Temptation the third appeared for a time the 
perfection of a nurse. She kept herself and 
the nursery and the children in most refreshing 
order ; she amused Una when she was more than 
usually unwell, with a perfect fund of innocent 
stories ; the work flew from her nimble fingers 
as if by magic. I boasted everywhere of my 
good luck, and sang her praises in Ernest’s ears 
until he believed in her with all his heart. But 
one night we were out late ; we had been spend- 
ing the evening at aunty’s, and came in with 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


323 


Ernest’s night key as quietly as possible, in 
order not to arouse the children. I stole softly 
to the nursery, to see if all was going on well 
there. Bridget, it seems, had taken the opportu- 
nity to wash her clothes in the nursery, and they 
hung all about the room drying, a hot fire raging 
for the purpose. In the midst of them, with a 
candle and prayer book on a chair, knelt Bridget 
fast asleep ; the candle within an inch of her 
sleeve. Her assurance when I aroused her that 
she was not asleep, but merely rapt in devotion, 
did not soften my hard heart, nor was I moved 
by the representation that she was a saint, and 
always wore black on that account. I packed 
her off in anything, but a saintly frame, and felt 
that a fourth Temptation w 7 ould scatter what 
little grace I possessed to the four winds. These 
changes up-stairs made discord, too, below. My 
cook was displeased at so much coming and 
going, and made the kitchen a sort of a purga- 
tory which I dreaded to enter. At last, when 
her temper fairly ran away with her, and she 
became impertinent to the last degree, I said, 
coolly, “If any lady should speak to me in this 
way I should resent it. But no lady would so 
far forget herself. And I overlook your rude- 
ness on this ground that you do not know better 
than to make use of such expressions.” 

This capped the climax ! She declared that 
she had never been told before that she was no 


3 2 4 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


lady and did not know how to behave, and gave 
warning at once. 

I wish I could help running to tell Ernest all 
these annoyances. It does no good, and only 
worries him. But how much of a woman’s life 
is made up of such trials and provocations ! and 
how easy it is when on one’s knees to bear them 
aright, and how far easier to bear them wrong 
when one finds the coal going too fast, the butter 
out just as one is sitting down to breakfast, the 
potatoes watery, and the bread sour or heavy ! 
And then when one is well nigh desperate, does 
one’s husband fail to say, in bland tones, “My 
dear, if you would just speak to Bridget, I am 
sure she would improve ! ’ ’ 

Oh, that there were indeed magic in a spoken 
word ! 

And do what I can, the money Ernest gives 
me will not hold out. He knows absolutely 
nothing about that hydra- headed monster, a 
household. I have had to go back to sewing as 
furiously as ever. And with the sewing the old 
pain in the side has come back, and the sharp, 
quick speech that I hate, and that Ernest hates, 
and that everybody hates. I groan, being bur- 
dened, and am almost weary of my life. And my 
prayers are all mixed up with worldly thoughts 
and cares. I am appalled at all the things that 
have got to be done before winter, and am 
tempted to cut short my devotions in order 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


325 


to have more time to accomplish what I must 
accomplish. 

How have I got into this slough. When was it 
that I came down from the Mount where I had 
seen the Lord, and came back to make these 
miserable, petty things as much my business as 
ever? Oh, these fluctuations in my religious 
life amaze me ! I cannot doubt that I am really 
God’s child; it would be a dishonor to Him, to 
doubt it. I cannot doubt that I have held as 
real communion with Him as with any earthly 
friend — and oh, it has been far sweeter ! 

Oct. 20. — I made a parting visit to Mrs. 

Campbell to-day, and, as usual, have come away 
strengthened and refreshed. She said all sorts 
of kind things to cheer and encourage me, and 
stimulated me to take up the burden of life 
cheerfully and patiently, just as it conies. She 
assures me that these fluctuations of feeling will 
by degrees give place to a calmer life, especially 
if I avoid, so far as I can do it, all unnecessary 
work, distraction and hurry. And a few quiet, 
resting words from her have given me courage 
to press on toward perfection, no matter how 
much imperfection I see in myself and others. 
And now I am waiting for my Father’s next 
gift, and the new cares and labors it will bring 
with it. I am glad it is not left to me to decide 
my own lot. I am afraid I should never see 


326 STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


precisely the right moment for welcoming a new 
bird into my nest, dearly as I love the rustle of 
their wings and the sound of their voices when 
they do come. And surely He knows the right 
moments who knows all my struggles with a 
certain sort of poverty, poor health and domestic 
care. If I could feel that all the time, as I do 
at this moment, how happy I should always be ! 

Jan. 16, 1847. — This is the tenth anni- 
versary of our wedding-day, and it has been a 
delightful one. If I were called upon to declare 
what has been the chief element of my happiness, 
I should say it was not Ernest’s love to me or 
mine to him, or that I am once more the mother 
of three children, or that my own dear mother 
still lives, though I revel in each and all of these. 
But underneath them all, deeper, stronger than 
all, lies a peace with God that I can compare to 
no other joy, which I guard as I would guard 
hidden treasure, and which must abide if all 
things else pass away. 

My baby is two months old, and her name 
is Ethel. The three children together form a 
beautiful picture which I am never tired of ad- 
miring. But they will not give me much time 
for writing. This little new-comer takes all 
there is of me. Mother brings me pleasant re- 
ports of Miss Clifford, who, under her gentle, 
wise influence is becoming an earnest Christian, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


327 


already rejoicing in the providence that arrested 
her where it did, and forced her to reflection. 
Mother says we ought to study God’s providence 
more than we do, since He has a meaning and 
a purpose in everything He does. Sometimes I 
can do this and find it a source of great happi- 
ness. Then worldly cares seem mere worldly 
cares, and I forget that His wise, kind hand is 
in every one of them. 

Feb. — Helen has been spending the 

whole day with me, as she often does, helping 
me with her skillful needle, and with the chil- 
dren, in a very sweet way. I am almost ashamed 
to indulge in writing down how dearly she Seems 
to love me, and how disposed she is to sit at my 
feet as a learner at the very moment I am long- 
ing to possess her sweet, gentle temper. But 
one thing puzzles me in her, and that is the 
difficulty she finds in gettinghold of these simple 
truths her father used to grope after but never 
found till just as he was passing out of the 
world. It seems as if God compensated such 
turbulent, fiery natures as mine by revealing 
Himself to them, for the terrible hours of shame 
and sorrow through which their sins and follies 
cause them to pass. I suffer far more than 
Helen does, .suffer bitterly, painfully, but I enjoy 
tenfold more. For I know whom I have be- 
lieved, and I cannot doubt that I am truly 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


328 

united to Him. Helen is naturally very reserved, 
but by degrees she has come to talk with me 
quite frankly. To-day as we sat together in the 
nursery, little Raymond snatched a toy from 
Una, who, as usual, yielded to him without a 
frown. I called him to me; he came reluctantly. 

“ Raymond, dear,” I said, “did }^ou ever see 
papa snatch anything from me? ” 

He smiled, and shook his head. 

“Well then, until you see him do it to me, 
never do it to your sister. Men are gentle and 
polite to women, and little bo) T s should be gentle 
and polite to little girls.” 

The children ran off to their play, and Helen 
said, “Now how different that is from my 
mother’s management with us ! She always 
made us girls yield to the boys. They would 
not have thought they could go up to bed unless 
one of us got a candle for them.” 

“That, I suppose, is the reason then that 
Ernest expected me to w 7 ait upon him after w 7 e 
were married,” I replied. “I was a little stiff 
about yielding to him, for besides mother’s pre- 
cepts, I was influenced by my father’s example. 
He was so courteous, treating her with as much 
respect as if she were a queen, and yet with as 
much love as if she were alw 7 ays a girl. I natur- 
ally expected the like from my husband.” 

“You must have been disappointed then,” 
she said. 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


329 


“Yes, I was. It cost me a good many pouts 
and tears, of which I am now ashamed. And 
Ernest seldom annoys me now with the little 
neglects that I used to make so much of. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Sometimes I think there are no ‘ little ’ 
neglects,” said Helen. “It takes less than ' 
nothing to annoy us. ’ ’ 

“And it takes more than everything to please 
us!” I cried. “But Ernest and I had one 
stronghold to which we always fled in our 
troublous times, and that w T as our love for each 
other. No matter how he provoked me by his 
little heedless ways, I had to forgive him because 
I loved him so. And he had to forgive me my 
faults for the same reason.” 

“ I had no idea husbands and wives loved 
each other so,” said Helen. “I thought they 
got over it as soon as their cares and troubles 
came on, and just joggedon together, somehow.” 
We both laughed, and she went on. 

“ If I thought I should be as happy as you are, 

I should be tempted to be married myself.” 

“Ah, I thought your time would come!” I cried. 

“ Don’t ask me any questions,” she said, her 
pretty face growing prettier with a bright, warm 
glow. “ Give me advice instead; for instance, 
tell me how I can be sure that if I love a man I 
shall go on loving him through all the wear and 
tear of married life, and how can I be sure that 
he can and will go on loving me?” 


330 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“ Well, then, setting aside the fact that you 
are both lovable and loving, I will say this : 
Happiness, in other words love, in married life 
is not a mere accident. When the union has 
been formed, as most Christian unions are, by 
God Himself, it is His intention and His will 
that it shall prove the unspeakable joy of both 
husband and wife, and become more and more 
so from year to year. But we are imperfect 
creatures, wayward and foolish as little children, 
horribly unreasonable, selfish and willful. We 
are not capable of enduring the shock of finding 
at every turn that our idol is made of clay, and 
that it is prone to tumble off its pedestal and lie 
in the dust, till we pick it up and set it in its 
place again. I was struck with Ernest’s asking 
in the very first praj^er he offered in my presence, 
after our marriage, that God would help us love 
each other ; I felt that love was the very founda- 
tion on which I was built, and that there was no 
danger that I should ever fall short in giving to 
my husband all he wanted, in full measure. But 
as he went on day after day repeating this 
prayer, and I naturally made it with him, I 
came to see that this most precious of earthly 
blessings had been and must be God’s gift, and 
that while we both looked at it in that light, 
and felt our dependence on Him for it, we might 
safely encounter together all the assaults made 
upon us by the world, the flesh, and the devil. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


331 


I believe we owe it to this constant prayer that 
we have loved each other so uniformly and with 
such growing comfort in each other ; so that our 
little discords have always ended in fresh accord, 
and our love has felt conscious of resting on a 
rock — and that that rock was the will of God.” 
“It is plain, then,” said Helen, “that you 
and Ernest are sure of one source of happiness 
as long as you live, whatever vicissitudes you 
may meet with. I thank you so much for what 
you have said. The fact is you have been 
brought up to carry religion into everything. 
But I was not. My mother was as good as she 
was lovely, but I think she felt, and taught us 
to feel, that we were to put it on as we did our 
Sunday clothes, and to wear it, as we did them, 
carefully and reverently, but with pretty long, 
grave faces. But you mix everything up so, 
that when I am with you I never know whether 
you are most like or most unlike other people. 
And your mother is just so.” 

“ But you forget that it is to Ernest I owe my 
best ideas about married life; I don’t remember 
ever talking with my mother or any one else on 
the subject. And as to carrying religion into 
everything, how can one help it if one’s religion 
is a vital part of one’s self, not a cloak put on 
to go to church in and to hang up out of the 
way against next Sunday ? ’ ’ 

Helen laughed. She has the merriest, yet 


33 2 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


gentlest little laugh one can imagine. I long to 
know who it is that has been so fortunate as to 
touch her heart. 

March. — I know now, and glad I am! 

The sly little puss is purring at this moment in 
James’ arms; at least I suppose she is, as I have 
discreetly come up to my room and left them to 
themselves. So it seems I have had all these 
worries about Lucy for naught. What made 
her so fond of James was simply the fact that a 
friend of his had looked on her with a favorable 
eye, regarding her as a very proper mother for 
four or five children who are in need of a .shep- 
herd. Yes, Lucy is going to marry a man so 
much older than herself, that on a pinch he 
might have been her father. She does it from a 
sense of duty, she says, and to a nature like hers 
duty may perhaps suffice, and no cry of the heart 
have to be stiffled in its performance. We are 
all so happy in the happiness of James and Helen 
that we are not in the mood to criticize Lucy’s 
decision. I have a strange and most absurd 
envy when I think what a good time they are 
having at this moment down stairs, while I sit 
here alone, vainly wishing I could see more of 
Ernest. Just as if my happiness were not a 
deeper, more blessed one than theirs, which 
must be purged of much dross before it will 
prove itself to be like fine gold. Yes, I suppose 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


333 


I am as happy in my dear, precious husband and 
children as a wife and mother can be in a fallen 
world, which must not be a real heaven lest we 
should love the land we journey through so well 
as to want to pitch our tents in it forever, and 
cease to look and long for the home whither we 
are bound. 

James will be married almost immediately, I 
suppose, as he sails for Syria early in April. 
How much a missionary and his wife must be to 
each other, when, severing themselves from all 
they ever loved before, they go forth, hand in 
hand, not merely to be foreigners in heathen 
lands, but to be henceforth strangers in their 
own should they ever return to it ! 

Helen says, playfully, that she has not a mis- 
sionary spirit, and is not at all sure that she 
shall go with James. But I don’t think that he 
feels very anxious on that point ! 

March. — It does one’s heart good to see 

how happy they are ! And it does one’s heart 
good to have one’s husband set up an opposition 
to the goings on by behaving like a lover himself. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


January i, 1851. 

It is a great while since I wrote that. “ God 
has been just as good as ever /” I want to say that 
before I say another word. But He has indeed 
smitten me very sorely. 

While we were in the midst of our rejoicings 
about James and Helen, and the bright future 
that seemed opening before them, he came home 
one day very ill. Ernest happened to be in and 
attended to him at once. But the disease was, 
at the very outset so violent, and raged with 
such absolute fury, that no remedies had any 
effect. Everything, even now, seems confused 
in my mind. It seems as if there was a sudden 
transition from the most brilliant, joyous health, 
to a brief but fearful struggle for life, speedily 
followed by the awful mystery and stillness of 
death. Is it possible, I still ask myself, that 
four short days wrought an event whose conse- 
quences must run through endless years ? — Poor 
mother ! Poor Helen ! When it w 7 as all over, 
I do not know what to say of mother but that 
she behaved and quieted herself like a weaned 
child. Her sweet composure awed me ; I dared 

(334) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


335 


not give way to my own vehement, terrible 
sorrow ; in the presence of this Christ-like pa- 
tience, all noisy demonstrations seemed profane. 
I thought no human being was less selfish, more 
loving than she had been for many years but the 
spirit that now took possession of her flowed into 
her heart and life directly from that great Heart 
of love, whose depths I had never even begun to 
sound. There was, therefore, something absolu- 
tely divine in her aspect, in the tones of her 
voice, in the smile on her face. We could com- 
pare its expression to nothing but Stephen, when 
he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up 
steadfastly to heaven and saw the Glory of God, 
and Jesus standing on the right hand of God. 
As soon as James was gone Helen came to our 
home ; there never was any discussion about it, 
she came naturally to be one of us. Mother’s 
health, already very frail, gradually failed, and 
encompassed as I was with cares, I could not be 
with her constantly. Helen took the place to 
her of a daughter, and found herself welcomed 
like one. The atmosphere in which we all lived 
was one which cannot be described ; the love for 
all of us and for every living thing that flowed 
in mother’s words and tones passed all know- 
ledge. The children’s little joys and sorrows 
interested her exactly as if she was one of them- 
selves ; they ran to her with every petty grievance 
and every new pleasure. During the time she 


336 STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


lived with us she had won many warm friends, 
particularly among the poor and the suffering. 
As her strength would no longer allow her to go 
to them, those who could do so, came to her, 
and I was struck to see she had ceased entirely 
from giving counsel, and now gave nothing but 
the most beautiful, tender compassion and sym- 
pathy. I saw that she was failing, but flattered 
myself that her own serenity and our care would 
prolong her life still for many years. I longed 
to have my children become old enough to 
fully appreciate her sanctified character ; and I 
thought she would gradually fade away and 
be set free, 

As light winds wandering through groves of bloom, 

Detach the delicate blossoms from the tree. 

But God’s thoughts are not as our thoughts, 
nor His ways as our ways. Her feeble body 
began to suffer from the rudest assaults of pain ; 
day and night, night and day, she lived through 
a martyrdom in which what might have been a 
life-time of suffering was concentrated into a 
few months. To witness these sufferings was 
like the sundering of joints and marrow, and 
once, only once, thank God ! my faith in Him 
staggered and reeled to and fro. “ How can He 
look down on such agonies!” I cried in my 
secret soul — “ Is this the work of a God of love , of 
mercy f ” Mother seemed to divine my thoughts, 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


337 


for she took my hand tenderly in hers, and said, 
with great difficulty : “ Though He slay me, yet 
will I trust in Him. He is just as good as ever.” 
And she smiled. I ran away to Ernest, crying 
“Oh, is there nothing you can do for her?” 

‘ ‘ What should a poor mortal do where Christ 
has done so much, my darling ? ” he said, taking 
me in his arms. ‘ ‘ Let us stand aside and see 
the glory of God, with our shoes from off our 
feet.” But he went to her with one more des- 
perate effort to relieve her, yet in vain. 

Mrs. Embury, of whom mother was fond, and 
who is always very kind when we are in trouble, 
came in just then, and after looking on a mo- 
ment in tears, she said to me : ‘ ‘ God knows 
whom He can trust ! He would not lay His 
hand thus on all His children.” 

Those few words quieted me. Yes, God 
knows. And now it is all over. My precious, 
precious mother has been a saint in heaven more 
than two years, and has forgotten all the battles 
she fought on earth, and all her sorrows and all 
her sufferings in the presence of her Redeemer. 
She knew that she was going, and the last words 
she uttered — and they were spoken with some- 
what of the playful, quaint manner in which she 
had spoken all her life, and with her own bright 
smile — still sound in my ears, “I have given 
God a great deal of trouble, but He is driving 
me into pasture now ! ’ ’ 


338 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


And then, with her cheek on her hand, she 
fell asleep, and slept on, till just at sundown she 
awoke to find herself in the green pasture, the 
driving all over for ever and ever. 

Who by searching can find out God ? My dear 
father entered heaven after a prosperous life, by 
a path wherein he was unconscious of a pang, 
and our beloved James, went bright and fresh 
and untarnished by conflict, straight to the 
Master’s feast. But what a long life-time of 
bereavement, sorrow and suffering, was my dar- 
ling mother’s pathway to glory ! Surely her 
felicity must be greater than theirs, and the 
crown she has won by such a struggle must be 
brighter than the stars? And this crown she 
is even now, while I sit here choked with tears, 
casting joyfully at the feet of her Saviour ! 

My sweet sister, my precious little Helen, still 
nestles in our hearts and in our home. Martha 
made one passionate appeal to her to return to 
her, but Ernest interfered : ‘ ‘ Let her stay with 
Katy,” he said. “ James would have chosen to 
have her with the one human being like himself. ’ ’ 

Does he then think me, with all my faults, the 
languor of frail health, and the cares and burdens 
of life weighing upon me, enough like that 
sparkling, brave boy to be of use and comfort to 
dear Helen ? I take courage at the thought and 
rouse myself afresh, to bear on with fidelity and 
patience. My steadfast aim now is to follow in 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


339 


my mother’s footsteps ; to imitate her cheerful- 
ness, her benevolence, her bright, inspiring ways, 
and never to rest till in place of my selfish 
nature, I become as full of Christ’s love as she 
became. I am glad she is at last relieved from 
the knowledge of all my cares, and though I 
often and often yearn to throw myself into her 
arms and pour out my cares and trials into her 
sympathizing ears, I would not have her back 
for all the world. She has got away from all the 
turmoil and suffering of life : let her stay ! 

The scenes of sorrow through which we have 
been passing have brought Ernest nearer to me 
than ever, and I can see that this varied disci- 
pline has softened and sweetened his character. 
Besides, we have modified each other. Ernest 
is more demonstrative, more attentive to those 
little things that make the happiness of married 
life, and I am less childish, less vehement — I 
wish I could say less selfish, but here I seem to 
have come to a standstill. But I do understand 
Ernest’s trials in his profession, far better than I 
did, and can feel and show some sympathy in 
them. Of course the life of a physician is neces- 
sarily one of self-denial, spent as it is amid scenes 
of suffering and sorrow, which he is often power- 
less to alleviate. But there is besides, the wear 
and tear of years of poverty ; his bills are dis- 
puted or allowed to run on year after year un- 
noticed ; he is often dismissed because he cannot 


340 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


put himself in the place of Providence and save 
life, and a truly grateful, generous patient is 
almost an unknown rarity. I do not speak of 
these things to complain of them. I suppose 
they are a necessary part of that whole providen- 
tial plan by which God molds and fashions and 
tempers the human soul, just as my petty, but 
incessant household cares are. If I had nothing 
to do but love my husband and children and 
perform for them, without let or hindrance, the 
sweet ideal duties of wife and mother, how con- 
tent I should be to live always in this w 7 orld ! 
But what would become of me if I were not 
called, in the pursuit of these duties and in con- 
tact with real life, to bear “restless nights, ill- 
health, unwelcome news, the faults of servants, 
contempt, ingratitude of friends, my own fail- 
ings, lowness of spirits, the struggle in over- 
coming my corruption, and a score of kindred 
trials ! ” 

Bishop Wilson charges us to bear all these 
things “as unto God,” and “with the greatest 
privacy.” How seldom I have met them save 
as lions in my way, that I would avoid if I could, 
and how I have tormented my friends by tedious 
complaints about them ! Yet when compared 
with the great tragedies of suffering I have both 
witnessed and suffered, how petty they seem ! 

Our household, bereft of mother’s and James’ 
bright presence, now numbers just as many mem- 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


341 


bers as it did before they left us. Another angel 
has flown into it, though not on wings, and I 
have four darling children, the baby, who can 
hardly be called a baby now, being nearly two 
years old. My hands and my heart are full, but 
two of the children go to school, and that cer- 
tainly makes my day’s work easier. 

The little things are happier for having regu- 
lar employment, and we are so glad to meet each 
other again after the brief separation ! I try to 
be at home when it is time to expect them, for I 
love to hear the eager voices ask, in chorus, the 
moment the door opens : “Is mamma at home ?’’ 
Helen has taken Daisy to sleep with her, which 
after so many years of ups and downs at night, 
now with restless babies, now to answer the bell 
when Ernest is out, is a great relief to me. 
Poor Helen ! She has never recovered her cheer- 
fulness since James’ death. It has crushed her 
energies and left her very sorrowful. This is 
partly owing to a soft and tender nature, easily 
borne down and overwhelmed, partly to what 
seems an almost constitutional inability to find 
rest in God’s will. She assents to all we say to 
her about submission, in a sweet, gentle way, 
and then comes the invariable, mournful wail, 
‘ ‘ But it was so unexpected ! It came so sudden- 
ly ! ” But I love the little thing, and her affection 
for us all is one of our greatest comforts. 

Martha is greatly absorbed in her own house- 


342 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


hold, its cares and its pleasures. She brings her 
little Underhills to see us occasionally, when 
they put my children quite out of countenance 
by their consciousness of the fine clothes they 
wear, and their knowledge of the world. Even 
I find it hard not to feel abashed in the presence 
of so much of the sort of wisdom in which I am 
lacking. As to Lucy, she is exactly in her 
sphere ; the calm dignity with which she reigns 
in her husband’s house; and the moderation and 
self-control with which she guides his children, 
are really instructive. She has a baby of her 
own, and though it acts just like other babies, 
and kicks, scratches, pulls and cries when it is 
washed and dressed, she goes through that pro- 
cess with a serenity and deliberation that I envy 
with all my might. Her predecessor in the 
nursery was all nerve and brain, and has left 
four children made of the same material behind 
her. But their wild spirits on one day, and their 
depression and languor on the next, have no 
visible effect upon her. Her influence is always 
quieting ; she tones down their vehemence with 
her own calm decision and practical good sense. 
It is amusing to see her seated among those four 
little furies, who love each other in such a dis- 
tracted way that somebody’s feelings are always 
getting hurt, and somebody always crying. By 
a sort of magnetic influence she heals these 
wounds immediately, and finds some prosaic 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


343 


occupation as an antidote to these poetical moods. 
I confess that I am instructed and reproved 
whenever I go to see her, and wish I were more 
like her. 

But there is no use in trying to engraft an 
opposite nature to one’s own. What I am, that 
I must be, except as God changes me into His 
own image. And everything brings me back to 
that, as my supreme desire. I see more and 
more that I must be myself what I want my 
children to be, and that I cannot make myself 
over even for their sakes. This must be His 
work, and I wonder that it goes on so slowly ; 
that all the disappointments, sorrows, sicknesses 
I have passed through have left me still selfish, 
still full of imperfections ! 

March 5, 1852. — This is the sixth anni- 
versary of James’ death. Thinking it all over 
after I went to bed last night, his sickness, his 
death, and the weary months that followed for 
mother, I could not get to sleep till long past 
midnight. Then Una woke, crying with the 
ear-ache, and I was up till nearly day-break 
with her, poor child. I got up jaded and de- 
pressed, almost ready to faint under the burden 
of life, and dreading to meet Helen, who is 
doubly sad on these anniversaries. She came 
down to breakfast dressed as usual in deep 
mourning, and looking as spiritless as I felt. 


344 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


The prattle of the children relieved the somber 
silence maintained by the rest of us, each 
of whom acted depressingly on the others. 
How things do flash into one’s mind ! These 
words suddenly came to mine, as we sat so 
gloomily at the table God had spread for us, 
and which He had enlivened by the four young 
faces around it — 

Why should the children of a King 
Go mourning all their days ? 

Why, indeed? Children of a King ! I felt 
grieved that I was so intent on my own sorrows 
as to lose sight of my relationship to Him. And 
then I asked myself what I could do to make the 
day less wearisome and sorrowful to Helen. 
She came, after a time, with her work to my 
room. The children took their good-bye kisses 
and went off to school ; Ernest took his, too, 
and set forth on his day’s work, while Daisy 
played quietly about the room. 

“Helen, dear,’’ I ventured at last to begin, 
“ I want you to do me a favor to-day.” 

“Yes,” she said, languidly. 

“I want you to go to see Mrs. Campbell. 
This is the day for her beef-tea, and she will be 
looking out for one of us.” 

“You must not ask me to go to-day Helen 
answered. 

“ I think I must, dear. When other springs 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


345 


of comfort dry up, there is one always left to us. 
And that, as mother often said, is usefulness.” 

“ I do try to be useful,” she said. 

“Yes, you are very kind to me and to the 
children. If you were my own sister you could 
not do more. But these little duties do not 
relieve that aching void in your heart which 
yearns so for relief.” 

“No,” she said, quickly, “I have no such 
yearning. I just want to settle down as I am 
now.” 

“Yes, I suppose that is the natural tendency 
of sorrow. But there is great significance in the 
prayer for ‘ a heart at leisure from itself, to 
soothe and sympathize.’ ” 

“Oh, Katy ! ” she said, “you don’t know, 
you can’t know, how I feel. Until James began 
to love me so I did not know there was such a 
love as that in the word. You know our family 
is different from yours. And it is so delightful 
to be loved. Or rather it was ! ’ ’ 

“Don’t say was'' I said. “You know we all 
love you dearly, dearly,” 

“ Yes, but not as James did ! ” 

‘ ‘ That is true. It was foolish in me to expect 
to console you by such suggestions. But to go 
back to Mrs. Campbell. She will sympathize 
with you, if you will let her, as very few can, 
for she has lost both husband and children.” 
“Ah, but she had a husband for a time, at 


346 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


least. It is not as if he were snatched away 
before they had lived together. ’ ’ 

If anybody else had said this I should have 
felt that it was out of mere perverseness. But 
dear little Helen is not perverse ; she is simply 
overburdened. 

“ I grant that your disappointment was greater 
than hers,” I went on. “But the affliction was 
not. Every day that a husband and wife walk 
hand in hand together upon earth, makes the 
twain more and more one flesh. The selfish 
element which at first formed so large a part of 
their attraction to each other disappears, and the 
union becomes so pure and beautiful as to form 
a fitting type of the union of Christ and His 
church. There is nothing else on earth like it.” 
Helen sighed. 

‘ ‘ I find it hard to believe, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ that there 
can be anything more delicious than the months 
in which James and I were so happy together.” 
“Suffering together would have brought you 
even nearer,” I replied. “Dear Helen, I am 
very sorry for you ; I hope you feel that, even 
when, according to my wont, I fall into argu- 
ments, as if one could argue a sorrow away ! ” 
“You are so happy, ’ ’ she answered. ‘ ‘ Ernest 
loves you so dearly, and is so proud of you, and 
you have such lovely children ! I ought not 
to expect you to sympathize perfectly with my 
loneliness.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


347 


“Yes, I am happy,” I said, after a pause; 
but you must own, dear, that I have had my 
sorrows, too. Until you become a mother your- 
self, you cannot comprehend what a mother can 
suffer, not merely for herself, in losing her child- 
ren, but in seeing their sufferings. I think I 
may say of my happiness that it rests on some- 
thing higher and deeper than even Ernest and 
my children.” 

‘ * And what is that ? ’ ’ 

“ The will of God, the sweet will of God. If 
He should take them all away, I might still pos- 
sess a peace which would flow on forever. I 
know T this partly from my own experience, and 
partly from that of others. Mrs. Campbell says 
that the three months that followed the death 
of her first child were the happiest she had ever 
known. Mrs. Wentworth, whose husband was 
snatched from her almost without warning, and 
while using expressions of affection for her such 
as a lover addresses to his bride, said to me, with 
tears rolling down her cheeks, yet with a smile, 

‘ I thank my God and Saviour that he has not 
forgotten and passed me by, but has counted me 
worthy to bear this sorrow for His sake. ’ And 
hear this passage from theEifeof Wesley, which 
I lighted on this morning : 

‘ ‘ He visited one of his disciples, who was ill 
in bed, and after having buried seven of her 
family in six months, had just heard that the 


34 § 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


eighth, her husband, whom she dearly loved, 
had been cast away at sea. ‘ I asked her,’ he 
says, ‘do you not fret at any of those things?’ 
she says, with a lovely smile, ‘ Oh, no ! how can 
I fret at anything which is the will of God? 
Let Him take all beside, He has given me Him- 
self. I love, I praise Him every moment.’ ” 

“Yes,” Helen objected, “ I can imagine people 
as saying such things in moments of excite- 
ment ; but afterwards, they have hours of terrible 
agony. ’ ’ 

“They have ‘hours of terrible agony, ’ of course. 
God’s grace does not harden our hearts, and 
make them proof against suffering, like coats of 
mail. They can all say, ‘ Out of the depths have 
I cried unto Thee,’ and it is they alone who 
have been down into the depths, and had rich 
experience of what God could be to His children 
there, who can utter such testimonials to His 
honor, as those I have just repeated.” 

“Katy,” Helen suddenly asked, “do you 
always submit to God’s will thus?” 

“In great things I do,” I said. “What 
grieves me is that I am constantly forgetting 
to recognize God’s hand in the little every-day 
trials of life, and instead of receiving them as 
from Him, find fault with the instruments by 
which He sends them. I can give up my child, 
my only brother, my darling mother without a 
word ; but to receive every tiresome visitor as 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


349 


sent expressly and directly to weary me by the 
Master Himself ; to meet every negligence on 
the part of the servants as His choice for me at 
the moment ; to be satisfied and patient when 
Ernest gets particularly absorbed in his books, 
because my Father sees that little discipline 
suitable for me at the time ; all this I have 
not fully learned.” 

“All you say discourages me,” said Helen, in 
a tone of deep dejection 1 “Such perfection was 
only meant for a few favored ones, and I do not 
dare so much as to aim at it. I am perfectly 
sure that I must be satisfied with the low state 
of grace I am in now and always have been.” 

She was about to leave me, but I caught her 
hand as she would have passed me, and made one 
more attempt to reach her poor, weary soul. 

“But are you satisfied, dear Helen?” I asked, 
as tenderly as I would speak to a little sick child. 
“Surely you crave happiness, as every human 
soul does ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, I crave it,” she replied, “but God has 
taken it from me.” 

“He has taken away your earthly happiness, 
I know, but only to convince you what better 
things He has in store for you. Let me read 
you a letter which Dr. Cabot wrote me many 
years ago, but which has been an almost con- 
stant inspiration to me ever since.” 

She sat down, resumed her work again, and 


350 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


listened to the letter in silence. As I came to 
its last sentence the three children rushed in 
from school, at least the boys did, and threw 
themselves upon me like men assaulting a fort. 
I have formed the habit of giving myself entirety 
to them at the proper moment and now entered 
into their frolicsome mood as joyously as if I 
had never known a sorrow or lost an hour’s 
sleep. At last they went off to their play-room, 
and Una settled down by my side to amuse 
Daisy, when Helen began again. 

“I should like to read that letter myself,” 
she said. “Meanwhile I want to ask you one 
question. What are }^ou made of that you can 
turn from one thing to another like lightning? 
Talking one moment as if life depended on 3^our 
every word, and then frisking about with those 
wild boys as if you were a child yourself? ” 

I saw Una look up curiously, to hear my ans- 
wer, as I replied, “I have always aimed at this 
flexibility. I think a mother, especially, ought 
to learn to enter into the gayer moods of her 
children at the very moment when her own 
heart is sad. And it may be as religious an 
act for her to romp with them at one time as 
to pray with them at another.” 

Helen now went away to her room with Dr. 
Cabot’s letter, which I silently prayed might 
bless her as it had blessed me. And then a 
jaded, disheartened mood came over me that 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


351 


made me feel that all I had been saying to her 
was but as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, 
since my life and my professions did not corre- 
spond. Hitherto my consciousness of imperfec- 
tion had made me hesitate to say much to Helen. 
Why are we so afraid of those who live under 
the same roof with us? It must be the convic- 
tion that those who daily see us acting in a petty, 
selfish, trifling way, must find it hard to conceive 
that our prayers and our desires take a wider 
and higher aim. Dear little Helen ! May the 
ice once broken remain broken forever. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


March 20. 

Helen returned Dr. Cabot’s letter in silence 
this morning, but directly after breakfast set 
forth to visit Mrs. Campbell, with the little 
bottle of beef-tea in her hands, which ought to 
have gone yesterday. I had a busy day before 
me ; the usual Saturday baking and Sunday din- 
ner to oversee, the children’s lessons for to- 
morrow to superintend and hear them repeat, 
their clean clothes to lay out and a basket of 
stockings to mend. My mind was somewhat 
distracted with these cares, and I found it a 
little difficult to keep on with my morning de- 
votions in spite of them. But I have learned, 
at least, to face and fight such distractions, in- 
stead of running away from them as I used to 
do. My faith in prayer, my resort to it, becomes 
more and more the foundation of my life, and I 
believe, with one wiser and better than myself, 
that nothing but prayer stands between my soul 
and the best gifts of God ; in other words, that 
I can and shall get what I ask for. 

I went down into the kitchen, put on my large 
baking-apron, and began my labors ; of course 

(352) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


353 


the door-bell rang and a poor woman was an- 
nounced. It is very sweet to follow Fenelon’s 
counsel and give oneself to Christ in all these 
interruptions ; but this time I said, “ Oh, dear ! ” 
before I thought. Then I wished I hadn’t, and 
went up, with a cheerful face, at any rate, to 
my unwelcome visitor, who proved to be one of 
my aggravating poor folks ; a great giant of a 
woman, in perfect health, and with a husband 
to support her if he will. I told her that I could 
do no more for her ; she answered me rudely, 
and kept urging her claims. I felt ruffled ; why 
should my time be thus frittered away, I asked 
myself, At last she went off, abusing me in a 
way that chilled my heart. I could only beg 
God to forgive her, and return to my work, 
which I had hardly resumed when Mrs. Embury 
sent for a pattern I had promised to lend her. 
Off came my apron and up two pairs of stairs I 
ran ; after a long search it came to light. Work 
resumed ; door-bell again. Aunty wanted the 
children to come to an early dinner. Going to 
aunty’s is next to going to Paradise to them. 
Everything was now hurry and flurry ; I tried 
to be patient, and not to fret their temper by 
undue attention to nails, ears, and other sus- 
ceptible parts of the human frame, but after it 
was all over and I had kissed all the sweet, 
dear faces good-bye, and returned to the kitchen, 
I felt sure that I had not been the perfect mother 


354 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN WARD. 


I want to be in all these little emergencies — yes, 
far from it. Bridget liad let the milk I was 
going to use boil over, and finally burn up. I 
was anno3 r ed and irritated, and already tired, 
and did not see how I was to get more, as Mary 
was cleaning the silver (to be sure, there is not 
much of it ! ) and had other extra Saturday work 
to do. I thought Bridget might offer to run to 
the corner for it, though it isn’t her business, 
but she is not obliging, and seemed as sulky 
as if I had burned the milk, not she. “After 
all,” I said to myself, “what does it signify, if 
Ernest gets no dessert? It isn’t good for him, 
and how much precious time is wasted over just 
this one thing?” However, I reflected, that 
arbitrarily refusing to indulge him in this respect 
is not exactly my mission as. his wife ; he is per- 
fectly well, and likes his little luxuries as well 
as other people do. So I humbled my pride and 
asked Bridget to go for the milk, which she did, 
in a lofty way of her own. While she was gone 
the marketing came home, and I had everything 
to dispose of. Ernest had sent home some apples, 
which plainly said, “I want some apple pie, 
Katy.” I looked nervously at the clock, and 
undertook to gratify him. Mary came down, 
crying, to say that her mother, who lived in 
Brooklyn, was very sick ; could she go to see 
her? I looked at the clock once more; told her 
she should go, of course, as soon as lunch was 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


355 


over ; this involved my doing all in her absence 
left undone. 

At last I got through with the kitchen ; the 
Sunday dinner being well under way ; and ran 
up stairs to put away the host of little garments 
the children had left when they took their flight, 
and to make myself presentable at lunch. Then 
I began to be uneasy lest Ernest should not be 
punctual and Mary be delayed ; but he came just 
as the clock struck one. I ran joyfully to meet 
him, very glad now that I had something good 
to give him. We had just got through lunch, 
and I was opening my mouth to tell Mary she 
might go, when the door-bell rang once more, 
and Mrs Fry, of Jersey City, was announced. I 
told Mary to wait till I found whether she had 
lunched or not; no, she hadn’t; had come to 
town to see friends off, was half famished, and 
would I do her the favor, etc., etc. She had a 
fashionable young lady with her, a stranger to 
me, as w r ell as a Miss Somebody else, from Al- 
bany, whose name I did not catch. I apologized 
for having finished lunch ; Mrs. Fry said all they 
w r anted was a cup of tea and a bit of bread and 
butter, nothing else, dear; now don’t put your- 
self out ! 

“ Now be bright and animated, and like your- 
self,” she whispered, “for I have brought these 
girls here on purpose to hear you talk, and they 
are prepared to fall in love with you on the spot. ’ ’ 


356 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


This speech sufficed to shut my mouth. 

Mary had to get ready for these unexpected 
guests, whose appetites proved equal to a raid on 
a good many things besides bread and butter. 
Mrs. Fry said, after she had devoured nearly 
half a loaf of cake, that she would really try to 
eat a morsel more, which Ernest remarked, drily, 
was a great triumph of mind over matter. As 
they talked and laughed and ate leisurely on, 
Mary stood looking the picture of despair. At 
last I gave her a glance that said she might go, 
when a new visitor was announced, Mrs. Win- 
throp, from Brooklyn, one of Ernest’s patients a 
few years ago, when she lived here. She pro- 
fessed herself greatly indebted to him, and said 
she had come at this hour because she should 
make sure of seeing him. I tried to excuse him, 
as I knew he would be thankful to have me do, 
but no, see him she must; he was her “pet 
doctor,’’ he had such “sweet bed-side manners;” 
and “ I am such a favorite with him, you know!” 

Ernest did not receive his ‘ ‘ favorite ’ ’ wdth 
any special warmth ; but invited her out to lunch 
and gallanted her to the table we had just left. 
Just like a man! Poor Mary! she had to fly 
round and get up what she could ; Mrs. Win- 
throp devoted herself to Ernest with a persistent 
ignoring of me that I thought rude and unwo- 
manly. She asked if he had read a certain book; 
he had not ; she then said, “I need not ask then 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


357 


if Mrs. Elliott has done so? These charming 
dishes, which she gets up so nicely, must absorb 
all her time. ’ ’ 

“ Of course,” replied Ernest. “ But she con- 
trives to read the reports of all the murders of 
which the newspapers are full.” 

Mrs. Winthrop took this speech literally, drew 
away her skirts from me, looked at me through 
her eye-glass, and said, “Yes?” At last she de- 
parted, Helen came home, and Mary went. I 
gave Helen an account of my morning ; she 
laughed heartily, and it did me good to hear that 
musical sound once more. 

“It is nearly five o’clock,” I said, as we at 
last had restored everything to order, “ and this 
whole day has been frittered away in the veriest 
trifles. It isn’t living to live so. Who is the 
better for my being in the world since six o’clock 
this morning. ” 

“I am for one,” she said, “kissing my hot 
cheeks , ‘ ‘ and you have given a great deal of 
pleasure to several persons. Your and Ernest’s 
hospitality is always graceful, I admire it in you 
both ; and this is one of the little ways, not to 
be despised, of giving real enjoyment.” It was 
nice in her to say that ; it quite rested me. 

At the dinner table Ernest complimented me 
on my good house-keeping. 

“ I was proud of my little wife at lunch,” he 
said. 


358 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


“And yet you said that outrageous thing 
about my reading about nothing but murders!” 
I said. 

“ Oh, well, you understood it,” he said, laugh- 
ingly. 

“ But that dreadful Mrs. Winthrop took it 
literally.” 

“What do we care for Mrs. Winthrop?” he 
returned. “ If you could have seen the contrast 
between you two in my eyes ! ’ ’ 

After all, one must take life as it comes ; its 
homely details are so mixed up with its sweet 
charities, and loves, and friendships, that one is 
forced to believe that God has joined them 
together, and does not will that they should be 
put asunder. It is something that my husband 
has been satisfied with his wife and his home 
to-day ; that does me good. 

March 30. — A stormy day and the chil- 
dren home from school, and no little frolicking 
and laughing going on. It must be delightful 
to feel well and strong while one’s children are 
young, there is so much to do for them. I do it; 
but no one can tell the effort it costs me. What 
a contrast there is between their vitality and the 
languor under which I suffer ! When their noise 
became intolerable, I proposed to read to them ; 
of course they made ten times as much clamor of 
pleasure and of course they leaned on me, ground 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


359 


their elbows into my lap, and tired me all out. 
As I sat with this precious little group about me, 
Ernest opened the door, looked in, gravely and 
without a word, and instantly disappeared. I 
felt uneasy, and asked him this evening why he 
looked so? Was I indulging the children too 
much, or what was it? He took me into liis 
arms and said : ‘ ‘ My precious wife, why will you 
torment yourself with such fancies? My very 
heart was yearning over you at that moment, as 
it did the first time I saw you surrounded by 
your little class at Sunday-school, years ago, and 
I was asking myself why God had given me such 
a wife, and my children such a mother.” 

Oh, I am glad I have got this written down ! 
I will read it over when the sense of my defi- 
ciencies overwhelms me, while I ask God why 
He has given me such a patient, forbearing 
husband. 

April i. — This has been a sad day to our 

church. Our dear Dr. Cabot has gone to his 
eternal home, and left us as sheep without a 
shepherd ! 

His death was sudden at the last, and found us 
all unprepared for it. But my tears of sorrow 
are mingled with tears of joy. His heart had 
long been in heaven, he was ready to go at a 
moment’s warning; never was a soul so con- 
stantly and joyously on the wing as his. Poor 


360 STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


Mrs. Cabot ! She is left very desolate, for all 
their children are married and settled at a dis- 
tance. But she bears this sorrow like one who 
has long felt herself a pilgrim and a stranger on 
earth. How strange that we ever forget that 
we are all such ! 

April 16. — The desolate pilgrimage was 

not long. Dear Mrs. Cabot was this day laid 
away by the side of her beloved husband, and it 
is delightful to think of them as not divided by 
death, but united by it in a complete and eternal 
union. 

I never saw a husband and wife more tenderly 
attached to each other, and this is a beautiful 
close to their long and happy married life. I 
find it hard not to wish and pray that I may as 
speedily follow my precious husband, should 
God call him away first. But it is not for me to 
choose. 

How I shall miss these faithful friends, who, 
from my youth up have been my stay and my 
staff in the house of my pilgrimage ! Almost all 
the disappointments and sorrows of my life have 
had their Christian sympathy, particularly the 
daily, wasting solicitude concerning my darling 
Una, for they too watched for years over as deli- 
cate a flower, and saw it fade and die. Only 
those who have suffered thus can appreciate the 
heart-soreness through which, no matter how 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 361 

outwardly cheerful I may be, I am always pass- 
ing. But what then ! Have I not ten thousand 
times made this my prayer, that in the words of 
Leighton, my will might become “ identical with 
God’s will.” 

And shall He not take me at my word ? Just 
as I was writing these words, my canary burst 
forth with a song so joyous that a song was put 
also into my mouth. Something seemed to say, 
this captive sings in his cage because it has never 
known liberty and cannot regret a lost freedom. 
So the soul of my child, limited by the restric- 
tions of a feeble body, never having known the 
gladness of exuberant health, may sing songs 
that will enliven and cheer. Yes, and does sing 
them ! What should we do without her gentle, 
loving presence, whose frailty calls forth our 
tenderest affections, and whose sweet face makes 
sunshine in the shadiest places ! I am sure that 
the boys are truly blessed by having a sister 
always at home to welcome them, and that their 
best manliness is appealed to by her helplessness. 

What this child is to me I cannot tell. And 
yet, if the skillful and kind Gardener should 
house this delicate plant before frosts come, 
should I dare to complain ? 


CHAPTER XXV. 


May 4. 

Miss Clifford came to lunch with us on 
Wednesday. Her remarkable restoration to 
health has attracted a good deal of attention, 
and has given Ernest a certain reputation which 
does not come amiss to him. Not that he is 
ambitious ; a more unworldly man does not live; 
but his extreme reserve and modesty have ob- 
scured the light that is now beginning to shine. 
We all enjoyed Miss Clifford’s visit. She is one 
of the freshest, most original creatures I ever 
met with, and kept us all laughing with her 
quaint speeches, long after every particle of 
lunch had disappeared from the table. But this 
mobile nature turns to the serious side of life 
with marvelous ease and celerity, as perhaps all 
sound ones ought to do. I took her up to my 
room where my work-basket was, and Helen 
followed, with hers. 

“ I have brought something to read to you, 
dear Mrs. Elliott,” Miss Clifford began, the 
moment we had seated ourselves, “which I have 
just lighted on, and I am sure you will like. A 

nobleman writes to Fenelon asking certain ques- 

(362) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


363 


tions, and a part of these questions, with the 
replies, I want to enjoy with you, as they cover 
a good deal of the ground we have often dis- 
cussed together. 

1. 

How shall I offer my purely indifferent ac- 
tions to God; walks, visits made and received, 
dress, little proprieties, such as washing the 
hands, etc., the reading of books of history, 
business with which I am charged for my friends, 
other amusements, .such as shopping, having 
clothes made, and equipages. I want to have 
some sort of prayer, or method of offering each 
of these things to God. 

REPLY. 

The most indifferent actions seem to be such, 
and become good as soon as one performs them 
with the intention of conforming one’s self in 
them, to the will of God. They are often better 
and purer than certain actions which appear 
more virtuous. 1st, because they are less of 
our own choice and more in the order of Provi- 
dence when one is obliged to perform them ; 2nd, 
because they are simpler and less exposed to 
vain complaisance ; 3d, because if one yields to 
them with moderation, one finds in them more 
of death to one’s inclinations than in certain acts 
of fervor in which self-love mingles ; finally, be- 


364 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


cause these little occasions occur more frequently, 
and furnish a secret occasion for continually 
making every moment profitable. 

It is not necessary to make great efforts nor 
acts of great reflection, in order to offer what are 
called indifferent actions. It is enough to lift 
the soul one instant to God, to make a simple 
offering of it. Everything which God wishes us 
to do, and which enters into the course of occu- 
pation suitable to our position, can and ought to 
be offered to God ; nothing is unworthy of Him 
but sin. When 3^011 feel that an action cannot 
be offered to God, conclude that it does not be- 
come a Christian ; it is at least necessary to 
suspect it, and seek light concerning it. I 
would not have a special pra}^er for each of these 
things, the elevation of the heart at the moment 
suffices. 

As for visits, commissions and the like, as 
there is danger of following one’s own taste too 
much, I would add to this elevating of the heart 
a prayer for grace to moderate myself and use 
precaution. 


11. 

In prayer I cannot fix my mind, or I have 
intervals of time when it is elsewhere, and it is 
often distracted for a long time before I perceive 
it. I want to find some means of becoming its 
master. 


STEPPING HE A YEN WARD. 


3 6 5 


REPLY. 

Fidelity in following the rules that have been 
given you, and in recalling your mind every time 
you perceive its distraction, will gradually give 
you the grace of being more recollected. Mean- 
while bear your involuntary distractions w 7 ith 
patience and humility ; you deserve nothing bet- 
ter. Is it surprising that recollection is difficult 
to a man so long dissipated and far from God ? 

hi. 

I wish to know if it is best to record, on my 
tablets, the faults and the sins I have committed, 
in order not to run the risk of forgetting them. 
I excite in myself to repentance for my faults as 
much as I can ; but I have never felt any real 
grief on account of them. When I examine my- 
self at night, I see persons far more perfect than 
I, complain of more sin ; as for me, I seek, I 
find nothing ; and yet it is impossible there 
should not be many points on which to implore 
pardon every day of my life. 

REPLY. 

You should examine yourself every night, but 
simply and briefly. In the disposition to which 
God has brought you, you will not voluntarily 
commit any considerable fault without remem- 
bering and reproaching yourself for it. As to 
little faults, scarcely perceived, even if you 


366 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


sometimes forget them, this need not make you 
uneasy. 

As to lively grief on account of your sins, it is 
not necessary. God gives it when it pleases 
Him. True and essential conversion of the heart 
consists in a full will to sacrifice all to God. 
What I call full will, is a fixed immovable dis- 
position of the wall to resume none of the 
voluntary affections which may alter the purity 
of the love to God and to abandon itself to all 
the crosses which it will perhaps be necessary to 
bear, in order to accomplish the will of God 
always and in all things. As to sorrow for 
sin, when one has it, one ought to return 
thanks for it ; wdien one perceives it to be 
wanting, one should humble one’s self peace- 
fully before God wdtliout trying to excite it by 
vain efforts. 

You find in your self-examination fewer faults 
than persons more advanced and more perfect 
do ; it is because your interior light is still feeble. 
It will increase, and the view of your infidelities 
will increase in proportion. It suffices, without 
making yourself uneasy, to try to be faithful to 
the degree of light you possess, and to instruct 
yourself by reading and meditation. It will not 
do to try to forestall the grace that belongs to a 
more advanced period. It would only serve to 
trouble and discourage you, and even to exhaust 
you by continual anxiety ; the time that should 


STEPPING HE A FEN IV A PD. 


367 


be spent in loving God would be given to forced 
returns upon yourself, which secretly nourish 
self-love. 

IV. 

In my pra3^ers my mind has difficulty in finding 
anything to say to God. My heart is not in it, 
or it is inaccessible to the thoughts of my mind. 

REPLY. 

It is not necessary to say much to God. Often- 
times one does not speak much to a friend whom 
one is delighted to see ; one looks at him with 
pleasure ; one speaks certain short words to him 
which are mere expressions of feeling. The 
mind has no part in them, or next to none ; one 
keeps repeating the same words. It is not so 
much a variety of thoughts that one seeks in 
intercourse with a friend, as a certain repose and 
correspondence of heart. It is thus we are with 
God, who does not disdain to be our tenderest, 
most familiar, most intimate friend. A word, a 
sigh, a sentiment, says all to God ; it is not 
always necessary to have transports of sensible 
tenderness ; a will all naked and dry, without 
life, without vivacity, without pleasure, is often 
purest in the sight of God. In fine, it is neces- 
sary to content one’s self with giving to Him 
what He gives it to give, a fervent heart when 
it is fervent, a heart firm and faithful in its 


368 STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


aridity, when He deprives it of sensible fervor. 
It does not always depend on you to feel ; but it 
is necessary to wish to feel. L,eave it to God to 
choose to make you feel sometimes, in order to 
sustain your weakness and infancy in Christian 
life ; sometimes weaning you from that sweet 
and consoling sentiment which is the milk of 
babes, in order to humble you, to make you 
grow, and to make you robust in the violent 
exercise of faith, by causing }^ou to eat the bread 
of the strong in the sweat of your brow. Would 
you only love God according as He will make 
you take pleasure in loving Him? You would 
be loving your own tenderness and feeling, 
fancying that you were loving God. Even while 
receiving sensible gifts, prepare yourself by pure 
faith for the time when you might be deprived 
of them ; and you will suddenly succumb if you 
had only relied on such support. 

I forgot to speak of some practices which may, 
at the beginning, facilitate the remembrance of 
the offering one ought to make to God, of all the 
ordinary acts of the day. 

1. Form the resolution to do so, every morn- 
ing, and call yourself to account in your self- 
examination at night. 

2. Make no resolutions but for good reasons, 
either from propriety or the necessity of relaxing 
the mind, etc. Thus, in accustoming one’s self 
to retrench the useless little by little, one accus- 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 369 

toms one’s self to offer wliat is not proper to 
curtail. 

3. Renew one’s self in this disposition when- 
ever one is alone, in order to be better prepared 
to recollect it when in company. 

4. Whenever one surprises one’s self in too 
great dissipation, or in .speaking too freely of his 
neighbor, let him collect himself and offer to 
God all the rest of the conversation. 

5. To flee, with confidence, to God, to act 
according to His will, when one enters company, 
or engages in some occupation which may cause 
one to fall into temptation. The sight of danger 
ought to warn of the need there is to lift the 
heart toward Him by whom one may be pre- 
served from it.” 

We both thanked her, as she finished reading, 
and I begged her to lend me the volume that I 
might make the above copy. 

I hope I have gained some valuable hints from 
this letter, and that I shall see more plainly than 
ever, that it is a religion of principle that God 
wants from us, not one of mere feeling. 

Helen remarked that she was most .struck by 
the assertion that one cannot forestall the graces 
that belong to a more advanced period. She 
said she had assumed that she ought to expe- 
rience all that the most mature Christian did, 
and that it rested her to think of God as doing 


370 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


this work for her, making repentance, for 
instance, a free gift, not a conquest to be won 
for one’s self. 

Miss Clifford said that the whole idea of giving 
one’s self to God in such little daily acts as 
visiting, shopping, and the like, was entirely 
new to her. 

“But fancy,” she went on, her beautiful face 
lighted up with enthusiasm, “what a blessed 
life that must be, when the base things of this 
world, and things that are despised, are so many 
links to the invisible world, and to the things 
God has chosen ! ’ ’ 

“In other words,” I said, “the top of the 
ladder that rests on earth reaches to heaven, and 
we may ascend it as the angels did in Jacob’s 
dream.” 

“And descend , too, as they did,” Helen put 
in, despondently. 

“Now you shall not speak in that tone,” 
cried Miss Clifford. “ ket us look at the bright 
side of life, and believe that God means us to be 
always ascending, always getting nearer to 
Himself, always learning something new about 
Him, always loving Him better and better. To 
be sure our souls are sick, and of themselves 
can’t keep ‘ ever on the wing,’ and I have had 
some delightful thoughts of late from just hear- 
ing the title of a book, ‘God’s method with the 
maladies of the soul.’ It gives one such a 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


371 


conception of the seeming ills of life ; to think of 
Him as our Physician, the ills all remedies, the 
deprivations only a wholesome regimen, the 
losses all gains. Why, as I study this individual 
case and that, see how patiently and persistently 
He tries now this remedy, now that, and how 
infallibly He cures the souls that submit to His 
remedies, I love Him so ! I love Him so ! And 
I am so astonished that we are restive under His 
unerring hand ! Think how He dealt with me. 
My soul was sick unto death, sick with worldli- 
ness, and self-pleasing and folly. There was 
only one way of making me listen to reason and 
that was just the way He took. He snatched 
me right out of the world and shut me up in one 
room, crippled, helpless and alone, and set me 
thinking, thinking, thinking, till I saw the 
emptiness and shallowness of all in which I had 
hitherto been involved. And then He sent you 
and your mother to show me the reality of life, 
and to reveal to me my invisible, unknown 
Physician. Can I love Him with half my heart ? 
Can I be asking questions as to how much I am 
to pay towards the debt I owe Him ? ’ * 

By this time Helen’s work had fallen from her 
hands and tears were in her eyes. 

“How I thank you,” she said, softly, “for 
what you have said. You have interpreted life 
to me ! You have given me a new conception of 
my God and Saviour.” 


372 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Miss Clifford seemed quenched and humbled 
by these words ; her enthusiasm faded away and 
she looked at Helen with a deprecatory air, as 
she replied, “Don’t say that! I never felt so 
unfit for anything but to sit at the feet of Christ’s 
disciples and learn of them.” 

Yet I, so many years one of those disciples, 
had been sitting at her feet, and had learned of 
her. Never had I so realized the magnitude of 
the work to be done in this world, nor the power 
and goodness of Him, who has undertaken to do 
it all. I was glad to be alone, to walk my room 
singing praises to Him for every instance in 
which, as my Physician, He had “disappointed 
my hope and defeated my joy,” and given me to 
drink of the cup of sorrow and bereavement. 

May 24. — I read to Krnest the extract 

from Fenelon which had made such an impres- 
sion on me. 

“Every business man, in short every man 
leading an active life, ought to read that,” he 
said. “ We should have a new order of things 
as the result. Instead of fancying that our ordi- 
nary daily work was one thing and our religion 
quite another thing, we should transmute our 
drudgery into acts of worship. Instead of going 
to prayer-meetings to get into a ‘good frame,’ 
we should live in a good frame from morning 
till night, from night till morning, and prayer 


5 PEPPING HE A VEN WA PD. 


2>1Z 


and praise would only be another form for ex- 
pressing the love and faith and obedience we had 
been exercising amid the pressure of business.” 

‘ ‘ I only wish I had understood this years 
ago,” I said. “I have made prayer too much 
of a luxury, and have often inwardly chafed and 
fretted when the care of children, at times, made 
it utterly impossible to leave them for private 
devotion — when they have been sick, for instance, 
or in other like emergencies. I reasoned this 
way : ‘ Here is a special demand on my patience, 
and I am naturally impatient. I viust have time 
to go away and entreat the Lord to equip me 
for this conflict.’ But I see now that the simple 
act of cheerful acceptance of the duty imposed 
and the solace and support withdrawn, would 
have united me more fully to Christ than the 
highest enjoyment of His presence in prayer 
could. ” 

“Yes, every act of obedience is an act of wor- 
ship,” he said. 

“ But why don’t we learn that sooner? Why do 
we waste our lives before we learn how to live? ” 
“I am not sure,” he returned, “that we do 
not learn as fast as we are willing to learn. God 
does not force instruction upon us, but when we 
say as Luther did, ‘ More light, Lord, more 
light,’ the light comes.” 

I questioned myself after he had gone, as to 
whether this could be true of me. Is there not 


374 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


in my heart some secret reluctance to know the 
truth, lest that knowledge should call to a higher 
and a holier life than I have yet lived. 

Junk 2. — I went to see Mrs. Campbell a 

few days ago, and found, to my great joy, that 
Helen had just been there, and that they had had 
a long and earnest conversation together. Mrs. 
Campbell has failed a good deal of late, and it 
is not probable that we shall have her with us 
much longer. Her every look and word is pre- 
cious to me when I think of her as one who 
is so soon to enter the unseen world, and see 
our Saviour, and be welcomed home by Him. 
If it is so delightful to be with those who are on 
the way to heaven, what would it be to have 
fellowship with one who had come thence, and 
could tell us what it is ! 

She spoke freely about death, and said Ernest 
had promised to take charge of her funeral, and to 
see that she was buried by the side of her husband. 

“You see, my dear,” she added, with a smile, 

‘ ‘ though I am expecting to be so soon a saint in 
heaven, I am a human being still with human 
weaknesses. What can it really matter where 
this weary old body is laid away, when I have 
done with it and gone and left it forever? And 
yet I am leaving directions about its disposal ! ” 

I said I was glad that she was still human, 
but that I did not think it a weakness to take 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


375 


thought for the abode in which her soul had 
dwelt so long. I saw that she was tired, and 
was coining away, but she held me, and would 
not let ine go. 

“Yes, I am tired,” she said, “but what of 
that? It is only a question of days now, and all 
my tired feelings will be over. Then I shall be 
as young and as fresh as ever, and shall have 
strength to praise and to love God, as I cannot 
do now. But before I go I want once more to 
tell you how good He is, how blessed it is to 
suffer with Him, how infinitely happy He has 
made me in the very hottest heat of the furnace. 
It will strengthen you in your trials to recall 
this my dying testimony. There is no wilder- 
ness so dreary but that His love can illuminate 
it ; no desolation so desolate but that he can 
sweeten it. I know what I am saying. It is 
no delusion. I believe that the highest, purest 
happiness is known only to those who have 
learned Christ in sick-rooms, in poverty, in rack- 
ing suspense and anxiety, amid hardships, and 
at the open grave. ’ ’ 

Yes, the radiant face, worn by sickness and 
suffering, but radiant still, said in language yet 
more unspeakably impressive, “To learn Christ, 
this is life ! ” 

I came into the busy and noisy streets as one 
descending from the mount, and on reaching 
home found my darling Una very ill in Ernest’s 


37 ^ 


STEPPING HE A YEN W A RD. 


arms. She had fallen and injured her head. 
How I had prayed that God would temper the 
wind to this shorn lamb, and now she had had 
had such a fall ! We watched over her till far 
into the night, scarcely speaking to each other, 
but I know by the way in which Krnest held my 
hand clasped in his, that her precious life was in 
danger. He consented at last to lie down, but 
Helen staid with me. What a night it was ! 
God only knows what the human heart can ex- 
perience in a space of time that men call hours. 
I went over all the past history of the child, 
recalling all her sweet looks and words, and my 
own secret repining at the delicate health that 
has cut her off from so many of the pleasures 
that belong to her age. And the more I thought, 
the more I clung to her, on whom, frail as she 
is, I was beginning to lean, and whose influence 
in our home I could not think of losing without 
a shudder. Alas, my faith seemed, for a time, 
to flee, and I could see just what a poor, weak 
human being is without it. But before daylight 
crept into my room, light from on high streamed 
into my heart, and I gave even this, my ewe- 
lamb, away, as my free-w T ill offering to God. 
Could I refuse Him my child because she was 
the very apple of my eye? Nay then, but let 
me give to Him, not what I value least, but 
what I prize and delight in most. Could I not 
endure heart-sickness for Him w T ho had given 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 


377 


His only Son for me? And just as I got that 
sweet consent to suffer, He who had lifted the 
rod to try my faith, laid it down. My darling 
opened her eyes and looked at us intelligently, 
and with her own loving smile. But I dared 
not snatch her and press her to my heart ; for 
her sake I must be outwardly calm at least. 

Junk 6. — I am at home with my precious 

Una, all the rest having gone to church. She 
lies peacefully on the bed, sadly disfigured for 
the time, but Ernest says he apprehends no dan- 
ger now, and we are a most happy, a most 
thankful household. The children have all been 
greatly moved by the events of the last few days, 
and hover about their sister with great sympathy 
and tenderness. Where she fell from, or how she 
fell, no one knows ; she remembers nothing about 
it herself, and it will always remain a mystery. 

This is the second time that this beloved child 
has been returned to us after we had given her 
away to God. 

And as the giving cost us ten-fold more now 
than it did when she was a feeble baby, .so we 
receive her now as a fresh gift from our loving 
Father’s hand, with ten-fold delight. Ah, we 
have no excuse for not giving ourselves entirely 
to Him. He has revealed Himself to us in so 
many sorrows, and in so many joys ; revealed 
Himself as He doth not unto the world ! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


May 13. 

This has been a Sunday to be held in long 
remembrance. We were summoned early this 
morning to Mrs. Campbell and have seen her 
joyful release from the fetters that have bound 
her so long. Her loss to me is irreparable. 
But I can truly thank God that one more “tired 
traveler ’ ’ has had a sweet ‘ ‘ welcome home. ’ ’ I 
can minister no longer to her bodily wants, and 
listen to her counsels no more, but she has en- 
tered as an inspiration into my life, and through 
all eternity I shall bless God that He gave me 
that faithful, praying friend. How little they 
know who languish in what seem useless sick- 
rooms, or amid the restrictions of frail health, 
what work they do for Christ by the power of 
saintly living and even by fragmentary prayers. 

Before her words fade out of my memory I 
want to write down, from hasty notes made at 
the time, her answer to some of the last questions 
I asked her on earth. She had always enjoyed 
intervals of comparative ease, and it was in one 
of these that I asked her what she conceived to 
be the characteristics of an advanced state of 

(378) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


379 


grace. She replied, “I think that the mature 
Christian is always, at all times, and in all cir- 
cumstances, what he was in his best moments in 
the progressive stages of his life. There were 
seasons, all along his course, when he loved God 
supremely ; when he embraced the cross joyfully 
and penitently ; when he held intimate com- 
munion with Christ, and loved his neighbor as 
himself. But he was always in terror, lest under 
the force of temptation all this should give place 
to deadness and dullness, when he would chafe 
and rebel in the hour of trial, and judge his 
fellow men with a harsh and bitter judgment, 
and give way to angry, passionate emotions. 
But these fluctuations cease, after a time, to 
disturb his peace. Love to Christ becomes the 
abiding, inmost principle of his life ; he loves 
Him rather for what He is than for what He has 
done or will do for him individually, and God’s 
honor becomes so dear to him that he feels per- 
sonally wounded when that is called in question. 
And the will of God becomes so dear to him that 
he loves it best when it ‘ triumphs at his cost.’ 

“ Once he only prayed at set times and sea- 
sons, and idolized good frames and fervent 
emotions. Now he prays without ceasing and 
whether on the mount or down in the depths 
depends wholly upon his Saviour. 

“His old self-confidence has now given place 
to child-like humility that will not let him take 


380 


S TEPPING HE A VEN IV A PD. 


a step alone and the sweet peace that is now 
habitual to him, combined with the sense of his 
own imperfections, fills him wdth love to his 
fellow man. He hears and believes and hopes 
and endures all things and thinketh no evil. 
The tones of his voice, the very expression of 
his countenance, become changed, love now con- 
trolling where human passions held sway. In 
short, he is not only a new creature in Jesus 
Christ, but has the habitual and blessed con- 
sciousness that this is so.” 

These words were spoken deliberately and with 
reflection. 

“You have described my mother, just as she 
w T as from the moment her only son, the last of 
six, was taken from her,” I said, at last. “I 
never before quite understood how that final 
sorrow weaned her, so to say, from herself, and 
made her life all love to God and all love to 
man. But I see it now. Dear Mrs. Campbell, 
pray for me that I may yet wear her mantle ! ’ ’ 

She smiled with a significance that said she 
had already done so, and then we parted — parted 
that she might end her pilgrimage and go to her 
rest — parted that I might pursue mine, I know 
not how long, nor amid how many cares and 
sorrows, nor with what weariness and heart-sick- 
ness — parted to meet again in the presence of 
Him we love, with those who have come out 
of great tribulation, whose robes have been made 


5 TEPPING HEA VEN WA PD. 38 1 

white in the blood of the Lamb, and who are 
before the throne of God, and serve Him day 
and night in His temple, to hunger no more, 
neither thirst any more, for the Lamb, which 
is in the midst of the throne shall lead them 
into living fountains of water ; and God shall 
wipe away all tears from their eyes. 

May 25. — We were talking of Mrs. Camp- 
bell, and of her blessed life and blessed death. 
Helen said it discouraged and troubled her to 
see and hear such things. 

“The last time I saw her when she was able 
to converse,” she said, “I told her that when I 
reflected on m}^ want of submission to God’s 
will, I doubted whether I really could be His 
child. She said, in her gentle, sweet way : 
“‘Would you venture to resist His will, if 
you could? Would you really have your dear 
Janies back again in this world, if you could?’ 

“ ‘ I would, I certainly would,’ I said. 

“She returned: ‘I sometimes find it a help, 
when dull and cramped in my devotions, to say 
to myself : Suppose Christ should now appear 
before you, and you could see Him as he ap- 
peared to His disciples on earth, what would you 
say to Him ? This brings Him near, and I say 
what I would say if He were visibly present. I 
do the same when a new sorrow threatens me. 
I imagine my Redeemer as coming personally to 


382 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


say to me, “For your sake I am a man of sor- 
rows and acquainted with grief ; now for My sake 
give me this child, bear this burden, submit to 
this loss.” Can I refuse Him? Now, dear, he 
has really come thus to you, and asked you to 
show your love to Him, your faith in Him, by 
giving him the most precious of your treasures. 
If he were here at this moment, and offered to 
restore it to you, would you dare to say, “Yea, 
Lord, I know, far better than Thou dost, what 
is good for him and good for me ; I will have him 
return to me, cost what it may ; in this world of 
uncertainties and disappointments I shall be sure 
of happiness in his society, and he will enjoy 
more here on earth with me, than he could en- 
joy in the companionship of saints and angels 
and of the Lord Himself in heaven. ’ ’ Could you 
dare to say this? ’ Oh, Katy, wdiat straits she 
drove me into ! No, I could not dare to say that !” 

“Then my darling little sister!” I cried, 
“you will give up this struggle ? You will let 
God do what He will with His own?” 

“ I have to let Him,” she replied ; “ but I sub- 
mit because I must.” 

I looked at her gentle, pure face as she uttered 
these words and could only marvel at the strong 
will that had no expression there. 

“Tell me,” she said, “do you think a real 
Christian can feel as I do? For my part I doubt 
it. I doubt everything.” 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


383 


“ Doubt everything, but believe in Christ,” I 
said. “Suppose, for argument’s sake, you are 
not a Christian. You can become one now.” 
The color rose in her lovely face ; she clasped 
her hands together in a sort of ecstacy. 

“ Yes" she said, “ I can." 

At last God had sent her the word she wanted. 

May 28. — Helen came to breakfast this 

morning in a simple white dress. I had not 
time to tell the children not to allude to it, so 
they began in chorus : 

“ Why, Aunt Helen ! }^ou have put on a white 
dress ! ’ ’ 

“ Why, aunty, how queer you look!” 

“ Hurrah! if she don’t look like other folks!” 

She bore it all with her usual gentleness ; or 
rather with a positive sweetness that captivated 
them as her negative patience had never done. 
I said nothing to her, nor did she to me till late 
in the day, when she came to me, and said : 

“ Katy, God taught you what to say. All 
these years I have been tormenting myself with 
doubts as to whether I could be His child while 
so unable to say, Thy will be done. If you had 
said, ‘ Why yes, you must be His child, for you 
professed yourself one a long time ago, and ever 
since have lived like one,’ I should have re- 
mained as wretched as ever. As it is, a mountain 
has been rolled off my heart. Yes, if I was not 


384 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


His child yesterday, I can become one to-day; if 
I did not love Him then, I can begin now.” 

I do not doubt that she was His child, yester- 
day, and last year, and years ago. But let her 
think what she pleases. A new life is opening 
before her ; I believe it is to be a life of entire 
devotion to God, and that out of her sorrow 
there shall spring up a wondrous joy. 

Sept. 2, Sweet Briar Farm . — Ernest 

spent Sunday with us, and I have just driven 
him to the station, and seen him safely off. 
Things have prospered with us to such a degree 
that he has been extravagant enough to give me 
the use, for the summer, of a bonnie little nag, 
and an antiquated vehicle, and I have learned to 
drive. To be sure I broke one of the shafts of 
the poor old thing the first time I ventured forth 
alone, and the other day nearly upset my cargo 
of children in a pond where I was silly enough 
to undertake to water my horse. But Ernest, as 
usual, had patience with me, and begged me to 
spend as much time as possible in driving about 
with the children. It is a new experience, and 
I enjoy it quite as much as he hoped I should. 
Helen is not with us ; she has spent the whole 
summer with Martha; for Martha, poor thing, 
is suffering terribly from rheumatism and is 
almost entirely helpless. I am so sorry for her, 
after so many years of vigorous health, how hard 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


385 


it must be to endure this pain. With this draw- 
back we have had a delightful summer ; not one 
sick day nor one sick night. With no baby to 
keep me awake, I sleep straight through, as 
Raymond says, and wake in the morning re- 
freshed and cheerful. We shall have to go home 
soon ; how cruel it seems to bring up children in 
a great city ! Yet what can be done about it? 
Wherever there are men and women there must 
be children ; what a howling wilderness either 
city or country would be without them ! 

The only drawback on my felicity is the sepa- 
ration from Ernest, which becomes more painful 
every year to us both. God has blessed our 
married life ; it has had its waves and its bil- 
lows, but, thanks be unto Him, it has at last 
settled down into a calm sea of untroubled peace. 
While I was secretly upbraiding my dear hus- 
band for giving so much attention to his profes- 
sion as to neglect me and my children, he was 
becoming, every day, more the ideal of a physi- 
cian, cool, calm, thoughtful, studious, ready to 
sacrifice his life at any moment in the interests 
of humanity. How often I have mistaken his 
preoccupied air for indifference ; how many times 
I have inwardly accused him of coldness, when 
his whole heart and soul were filled with the 
grave problem of life, aye, and of death likewise! 

But we understand each other now, and I am 
sure that God dealt wisely and kindly with us 


386 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


when He brought together two such opposite 
natures. No man of my vehement nature could 
have borne with me as Ernest has done, and if 
he had married a woman as calm, as undemon- 
strative as himself, what a strange home his 
would have been for the nurture of little chil- 
dren ! But the heart was in him, and only wanted 
to be wakened up, and my life has called forth 
music from his. Ah, there are no partings and 
meetings now that leave discords in the remem- 
brance, no neglected birthdays, no forgotten 
courtesies. It is beautiful to see the thoughtful 
brow relax in presence of wife and children, and 
to know that ours is, at last, the happy home I 
so long sighed for. Is the change all in Ernest? 
Is it not possible that I have grown more reason- 
able, less childish and aggravating ? 

We are at a farm house ; everything is plain, 
but neat and nice. I asked Mrs. Brown, our 
hostess, the other day, if she did not envy me 
my four little pets ; she smiled, said they were 
the best children she ever saw, and that it was 
well to have a family if }^ou have means to start 
them in the world ; for her part, she lived from 
hand to mouth as it was, and was sure she could 
never stand the worry and care of a house full 
of young ones. 

“But the worry and care is only half the 
story,” I said. “The other half is pure joy 
and delight.” 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


387 


“ Perhaps so, to people that are well-to-do,” 
she replied ; ‘ ‘ but to poor folks, driven to death 
as we are, it’s another thing. I was telling him 
yesterday what a mercy it was there wasn’t any 
young ones round under my feet, and I could 
take city boarders, and help work off the mort- 
gage on the farm.” 

“ And what did your husband say to that ? ” 

“Well, he said we w r ere young and hearty, 
and there was no such tearing hurry about the 
mortgage, and that he’d give his right hand to 
have a couple of boys like yours.” 

“Well?” 

‘ ‘ Why, I said, supposing we had a couple of 
boys, they wouldn’t be like yours, dressed to 
look genteel and to have their genteel ways; but 
a pair of wild colts, into everything, tearing 
their clothes off their backs, and wasting faster 
than we could earn. He said ’twasn’t the 
clothes, ’twas the flesh and blood he wanted, 
and ’twasn’t no use to argufy about it; a man 
that hadn’t got any children wasn’t mor’11 half 
a man. ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ supposing you had a 
pack of ’em, what have you got to give ’em?’ 
‘ Jest exactly what my father and mother gave 
me,’ says he ; ‘two hands to earn their bread 
with, and a welcome you could have heard from 
Dan to Beersheba.’ ” 

“ I like to hear that ! ” I said. “ And I hope 
many such welcomes will resound in this house. 


3 88 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


Suppose money does come in while little goes 
out ; suppose you get possession of the whole 
farm ; what then ? Who will enjoy it with you ? 
Who will you leave it to when you die? And 
in your old age who will care for you ? ” 

“You seem awful earnest,” she said. 

“Yes, I am in earnest. I want to see little 
children adorning every home, as flowers adorn 
every meadow and every w r ay-side. I want to see 
them welcomed to the homes they enter, to see 
their parents grow less and less selfish, and more 
and more loving, because they have come. I 
want to see God’s precious gifts accepted, not 
frowned upon and refused.” 

Mr. Brown came in, so I could say no more. 
But my heart warmed towards him, as I looked 
at his frank, good-humored face, and I should 
have been glad to give him the right hand of 
fellowship. As it was, I could only say a word 
or two about the beauty of his farm, and the 
scenery of this whole region. 

“Yes,” he said, gratified that I appreciated 
his fields and groves, “ it is a tormented pretty- 
laying farm. Part of it was her father’s, and 
part of it was my father’s ; there ain’t another 
like it in the country. As to the scenery, I 
don’t know as I ever looked at it ; city folks talk 
a good deal about it, but they’ve nothing to do 
but look round.” Walter came trotting in on 
two bare, white feet, and with his shoes in his 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD . 


389 


hand. He had had his nap, felt as bright and 
fresh as he looked rosy, and I did not wonder 
at Mr. Brown’s catching him up and clasping 
his sunburnt arms about the little fellow, and 
pressing him against the warm heart that yearned 
for nestlings of its own. 

Sept. 23. — Home again, and full of the 

thousand cares that follow the summer and pre- 
cede the winter. But let mothers and wives fret 
as they will, they enjoy these labors of love, and 
would feel lost without them. For what amount 
of leisure, ease, and comfort would I exchange 
husband and children and this busy home ? 

Martha is better, and Helen has come back to 
us. I don’t know how we have lived without 
her so long. Her life seems necessary to the 
completion of every one of ours. Some others 
have fancied it necessary to the completion of 
theirs, but she has not agreed with them. We 
are glad enough to keep her, and yet I hope the 
time will come when she, so worthy of it, will 
taste the sweet joys of wifehood and mother- 
hood. 


Jan. 1, 1853. — It is not always so easy to 

practice, as it is to preach. I can see in my 
wisdom, forty reasons for having four children 
and no more. The comfort of sleeping in peace, 
of having a little time to read, and to keep on 


390 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


with my music ; strength with which to look 
after Ernest’s poor people when they are sick ; 
and, to tell the truth, strength to be bright and 
fresh and lovable to him — all these little joys 
have been growing very precious to me, and now 
I must give them up. I want to do it cheerfully 
and without a frown. But I find I love to have 
my own way, and that at the very moment I 
was asking God to appoint my work for me, I 
was secretly marking it out for myself. It is 
mortifying to find my will less in harmony with 
His than I thought it was, and that I want to 
prescribe to Him how I shall spend the time, and 
the health and the strength which are His, not 
mine. But I will not rest till this struggle is 
over ; till I can say with a smile , ‘ ‘ Not my will ! 
Not my will ! But Thine ! ” 

We have been, this winter, one of the happiest 
families on earth. Our love to each other, 
Ernest’s and mine, though not perfect — nothing 
on earth is — has grown less selfish, more Christ- 
like ; it has been sanctified by prayer and by the 
sorrows we have borne together. Then the 
children have been well and happy, and the 
source of almost unmitigated joy and comfort. 
And Helen’s presence in this home, her sisterly 
affection, her patience with the children and her 
influence over them, is a benediction for which I 
cannot be thankful enough. How delightful it 
is to have a sister ! I think it is not often the 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


391 


case that own sisters have such perfect Christian 
sympathy with each other as we have. Ever 
since the day she ceased to torment herself with 
the fear that she was not a child of God, and 
laid aside the somber garments she had worn so 
long, she has had a peace that has hardly known 
a cloud. She says, in a note written me about 
the time : “I want you to know, my darling 
sister, that the despondency that made my afflic- 
tion so hard to bear, fled before those words of 
yours, which, as I have already told you, God 
taught you to speak. I do not know whether I 
w r as really His child at that time or not. I had 
certainly had an experience very different from 
yours ; prayer had never been much more to me 
than a duty ; and I had never felt the sweetness 
of that harmony between God and the human 
soul, that I now know can take away all the 
bitterness from the cup of sorrow. I knew 
— who can help knowing it that reads God’s 
word? — that He required submission from His 
children and that His children gave it, no matter 
what it cost. The Bible is full of beautiful ex- 
pressions of it ; so are our hymns ; so are the 
written lives of all good men and good women ; 
and I have seen it in you, my dear Katy, at the 
very moment you were accusing yourself of the 
want of it. Entire oneness of the will, with the 
Divine Will, seemed to me to be the law and the 
gospel of the Christian life ; and this evidence 


39 2 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 

of a renewed nature I found wanting in myself. 
At any moment during the three years following 
James’ death, I would have snatched him away 
from God, if I could ; I was miserably lonely and 
desolate without him, not merely because he had 
been so much to me, but because his loss revealed 
to me the distance between Christ and my soul. 
All I could do was to go on praying, year after 
year, in a dreary, hopeless w r ay, that I might 
learn to say, as David did, ‘ I opened not my 
mouth because Thou didst it.’ When you sug- 
gested that instead of trying to find out whether 
I had loved God I should begin to love Him now, 
light broke in upon my soul ; I gave myself to 
Him that instant; and as soon as I could get 
away by myself I fell upon my knees and gave 
myself up to the sense of His sovereignty for 
the first time in my life. Then, too, I looked 
at my ‘light affliction,’ and at the ‘weight of 
glory ’ side by side, and thanked Him that 
through the one He had revealed to me the 
other. Katy, I know the human heart is deceit- 
ful above all things, but I think it would be a 
dishonor to God, to doubt that He then revealed 
Himself to me as He doth not to the world, and 
that the sweet peace I then found in yielding to 
Him, will be more or less mine so long as I live. 
Oh, if all sufferers could learn what I have 
learned ! That every broken heart could be 
healed as mine has been healed ! My precious 


5 TEPPING IPE A YEN WA PD. 


393 


sister, cannot we make this one part of our mis- 
sion on earth, to pray for every sorrow-stricken 
soul, and whenever we have influence over such, 
to lead it to honor God by instant obedience to 
His will, whatever that will may be? I have 
dishonored Him by years of rebellious, carefully 
nursed sorrow ; I want to honor Him now by 
years of resignation and grateful joy.” 

Reading this letter over in my present mood 
has done me good. More beautiful faith in God 
than Helen’s I have never seen ; let me have it, 
too. May this prayer, which, under the inspira- 
tion of the moment, I can offer without a mis- 
giving, become the habitual, deep-seated desire 
of my soul. 

‘ ‘ Bring into captivity every thought to the 
obedience of Christ. Take what I cannot give, 
my heart, body, thoughts, time, abilities, money, 
health, strength, nights, days, youth, age, and 
spend them in Thy service, O my crucified Mas- 
ter, Redeemer, God. Oh, let not these be mere 
words ! Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and 
there is none upon earth that I desire in com- 
parision with Thee. My heart is athirst for God, 
for the living God. When shall I come and 
appear before God? 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


August i. 

I have just written to Mrs. Brown to know 
whether she will take us for the rest of the sum- 
mer. A certain little man, not a very old little 
man, either, has kept us in town till now. Since 
he has come, we are all very glad of him, though 
he came on his own invitation, brought no 
wardrobe with him, does not pay for his board, 
never speaks a word, takes no notice of us, and 
wants more waiting on than anyone else in the 
house. The children are full of delicious curi- 
osity about him, and overwhelm him with pre- 
sents of the most heterogeneous character. 

Sweet Briar Farm , August 9. — We got 

here this afternoon, bag and baggage. I had 
not said a word to Mrs. Brown about the addi- 
tion to our family circle, knowing she had plenty 
of room, and as we alighted from the carriage, I 
snatched my baby from his nurse’s arms and 
ran gayly up the w r alk with him in mine. ‘ ‘ If 
this .splendid fellow doesn’t convert her nothing 
will,” I said to myself. At that instant what 
should I see but Mrs. Brown, running to meet 

(394) 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


395 


me with a boy in her arms exactly like Mr. 
Brown, only not quite six feet long, and not yet 
sun-burnt. 

“There!” I cried, holding up my little old 
man. 

“ There ! ” said she, holding up hers. 

We laughed till we cried ; she took my baby 
and I took hers ; after looking at him I liked 
mine better than ever ; after looking at mine she 
was perfectly satisfied with hers. 

We got into the house at last ; that is to say, 
we mothers did ; the children darted through it 
and out of the door that led to the fields and 
woods, and vanished in the twinkling of an eye. 

Mrs. Brown had always been a pretty woman, 
with bright eyes, shining, well-kept hair, and 
a color in her cheeks like the rose which had 
given its name to her farm. But there was 
now a new beauty in her face ; the mysterious 
and sacred sufferings and joys of maternity had 
given it thought and feeling. 

“I had no idea I should be so fond of a 
baby,” she said, kissing it, whenever she stopped 
to put in a comma; “but I don’t know how 
I ever got along without one. He’s off at work 
nearly the whole day, and when I got through 
with mine, and had put on my afternoon dress, 
and was ready to sit down, you can’t think how 
lonesome it was. But now, by the time I am 
dressed, baby is ready to go out to get the air; 


396 


5 TEPPING HE A YEN IV A RD. 


he knows the minute he sees me bring out his 
little hat that he is going to see his father, and 
lie’s awful fond of his father. Though that isn’t 
so strange, either, for his father’s awful fond of 
him. All his little ways are so pretty, and he 
never cries unless he’s hungry or tired. Tell 
mother a pretty story now ; yes, mother hears, 
bless his little heart ! ” 

Then when Mr. Brown came home to his 
supper, his face was a sight to see, as he caught 
sight of me at my open window, and came to it 
with the child’s white arms clinging to his neck, 
looking as happy and as bashful as a girl. 

“You see she must needs go to quartering 
this bouncing young one on to me,” he said, 
“as if I didn’t have to work hard enough be- 
fore. Well, maybe he’ll get his feed off the 
farm ; we’ll see what we can do.” 

“Mamma,” Una whispered, as he went olf 
with his fac-simile, to kiss it rapturously, behind 
a wood-pile, “do you think Mrs. Brown’s baby 
veiy pretty ? ’ ’ 

Which was so mild a way of suggesting the 
fact of the case that I kissed her without trying 
to hide my amusement. 

August io. — After being cooped up in 

town so large a part of the summer, the chil- 
dren are nearly wild with delight at being in the 
country once more. Even our demure Una skips 


5 TEPPING PIE A PEN IV A RD. 


397 


about with a bouyancy I have never seen in her ; 
she never has her ill turns when out of the city, 
and I wish, for her sake, that we could always 
live here. As to Raymond and Walter I never 
pretend to see them except at their meals 
and their bed time ; they just live out of doors, 
following the men at their work, asking all sorts 
of absurd questions, which Mr. Brown reports 
to me every night, with shouts of delighted 
laughter. Two gay and gladsome boys they 
are ; really good without being priggish ; I don’t 
think I could stand that. People ask me how it 
happens that my children are all so promptly 
obedient and so happy. As if it chanced that 
some parents have such children, or chanced that 
some have not ! I am afraid it is only too true, 
as some one has remarked, that “this is the age 
of obedient parents ! ’ ’ What then will be the 
future of their children ? How can they yield 
to God who have never been taught to yield to 
human authority ? And how well fitted will 
they be to rule their own households who have 
never learned to rule themselves ? 

August 31. — This has been one of those 

cold, dismal, rainy days which are not unfre- 
quent during the month of August. So the 
children have been obliged to give up the open 
air, of which they are so fond, and fall back 
upon what entertainment could be found within 


398 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


the house. I have read to them the little jour- 
nal I kept during the whole life of the brother I 
am not willing they should forget. His quaint 
and sagacious sayings were delicious to them ; 
the history of his first steps, his first words 
sounded to them like a fairy tale. And the story 
of his last steps, his last words on earth, had for 
them such a tender charm, that there was a cry 
of disappointment from them all, when I closed 
the little book, and told them we should have to 
wait till we got to heaven before we could know 
anything more about his precious life. 

How thankful I am that I kept this journal, 
and that I have almost as charming ones about 
most of my other children ! What I speedily 
forgot, amid the pressure of cares and of new 
events, is safely written down, and will be the 
source of endless pleasure to them long after the 
hand that wrote has ceased from its labors, and 
lies inactive and at rest. 

Ah, it is a blessed thing to be a mother ! 

Sept. i. — This baby of mine is certainly 

the sweetest and best I ever had. I feel an in- 
expressible tenderness for it which I cannot quite 
explain to myself, for I have loved them all 
dearly, most dearly. Perhaps it is so with all 
mothers ; perhaps they all grow more loving, 
more forbearing, more patient as they grow 
older, and yearn over these helpless little ones 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


399 


with an ever-increasing, yet chastened delight. 
One cannot help sheltering their tender infancy, 
who will so soon pass forth to fight the battle of 
life, each one waging an invisible warfare against 
invisible foes. How thankfully we would fight 
it for them, if we might ! 

Sept. 20. — The mornings and evenings 

are very cool now, while in the middle of the day 
it is quite hot. Ernest comes to see us very 
often, under the pretense that he can’t trust me 
with so young a baby ! He is so tender and 
thoughtful, and spoils me so, that this world is 
very bright to me ; I am a little jealous of it ; I 
don’t want to be so happy in Ernest, or in my 
children, as to forget for one instant that I am a 
pilgrim and a stranger on earth. 

Evening. — There is no danger that I 

shall. Ernest suddenly made his appearance to- 
night, and in a great burst of distress quite 
unlike anything I ever saw in him, revealed to 
me that he had been feeling the greatest anxiety 
about me ever since the baby came. It is all 
nonsense. I cough, to be sure ; but that is 
owing to the varying temperature we always 
have at this season. I shall get over it as soon 
as we get home, I dare say. 

But suppose I should not ; what then ? Could 
I leave this precious little flock, uncared for, 


400 


5 TEPPING HE A VEN WA PD. 


untended ? Have I faith to believe that if God 
calls me away from them, it will be in love to 
them ? I do not know. The thought of getting 
away from the sin that still so easily besets me, 
is very delightful, and I have enjoyed so many, 
many such foretastes of the bliss of heaven that 
I know I should be happy there ; but then, my 
children, all of them under twelve years old ! I 
will not choose, I dare not. 

My married life has been a beautiful one. It 
is true that sin and folly, and sickness and 
sorrow, have marred its perfection, but it has 
been adorned by a love which has never faltered. 
My faults have never alienated Ernest ; his 
faults, for like other human beings he has them, 
have never overcome my love to him. This has 
been the gift of God in answer to our constant 
prayer, that whatever other bereavement we 
might have to suffer, we might never be bereft 
of this benediction. It has been the glad secret 
of a happy marriage, and I wish I could teach it 
to every human being who enters upon a state 
that must bring with it the depth of misery, or 
life’s most sacred and mysterious joy. 

Oct. 6. — Ernest has let me stay here to 

see the autumnal foliage in its ravishing beauty 
for the first, perhaps for the last, time. The 
woods and fields and groves are lighting up my 
very soul ! It seems as if autumn had caught the 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


401 


inspiration and the glow of summer, had hidden 
its floral beauty, its gorgeous sunsets and its bow 
of promise in its heart of hearts, and was now 
flashing it forth upon the world with a lavish 
and opulent hand. I can hardly tear myself 
away, and return to the prose of city life. But 
Ernest has come for us, and is eager to get us 
home before colder weather. I laugh at his 
anxiety about his old wife. Why need he fancy 
that this trifling cough is not to give way as it 
often has done before ? Dear Ernest ! I never 
knew that he loved me so. 

Oct 31. — Ernest’s fear that he had let 

me stay too long in the country does not seem 
to be justified. We went so late that I wanted 
to indulge the children by staying late. So w T e 
have only just got home. I feel about as well as 
usual ; it is true I have a little soreness about 
the chest, but it does not signify anything. 

I never was so happy in my husband and 
children, in other words, in my home , as I am 
now. Life looks very attractive. I am glad 
that I am going to get well. 

But Ernest watches me carefully, and wants 
me, as a precautionary measure, to give up 
music, writing, sewing, and painting — the very 
things that occupy me ! — and lead an idle, use- 
less life, for a time. I cannot refuse what he 
asks so tenderly, and as a personal favor to him- 


402 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


self. Yet I should like to fill the few remaining 
pages of my journal ; I never like to leave 
things incomplete. 

June i, 1858. — I wrote that seven years 

ago, little dreaming how long it would be before 
I should use a pen. Seven happy years ago ! 

I suppose that some who have known what 
my outward life has been during this period 
would think of me as a mere object of pity. 
There has certainly been suffering and depriva- 
tion enough to justify the sympathy of my dear 
husband and children, and the large circle of 
friends who have rallied about us. How little 
we knew we had so many ! 

God has dealt very tenderly with me. I was 
not stricken down by sudden disease, nor were 
the things I delighted in all taken away at once. 
There was a gradual loss of strength and gradual 
increase of suffering, and it was only by degrees 
that I was asked to give up the employments in 
which I delighted, my household duties, my 
visits to the sick and suffering, the society of 
beloved friends. Perhaps Ernest perceived and 
felt my deprivations sooner than I did ; his 
sympathy always seemed to out-run my dis- 
appointments. When I compare him, as he is 
now, with what he was when I first knew him, 
I bless God for all the precious lessons He has 
taught him at my cost. There is a tenacity and 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


403 


persistence about his love for me that has made 
these years almost as wearisome to him, as they 
have been to me. As to myself, if I had been 
told what I w r as to learn through these protracted 
sufferings, I am afraid I should have shrunk 
back in terror, and so have lost all the sweet 
lessons God proposed to teach me. As it is, 
He has led me on, step by step, answering my 
prayers in His own way ; and I cannot bear to 
have a single human being doubt that it has been 
a perfect way. I love and adore it just as it is. 

Perhaps suspense has been one of the most 
trying features of my case. Just as I have un- 
clasped my hand from my dear Ernest’s; just 
as I have let go my almost frantic hold of my 
darling children; just as heaven opened before 
me, and I fancied my weariness over and my 
wanderings done ; just then almost every alarm- 
ing symptom would disappear, and life recall 
me from the threshold of heaven itself. Thus 
I have been emptied from vessel to vessel, till 
I have learned that he only is truly happy who 
has no longer a choice of his own and lies pas- 
sive in God’s hand. 

Even now, no one can foretell the issue of 
this sickness. We live a day at a time, not 
knowing what shall be on the morrow. But 
whether I live or die, my happiness is secure, 
and so, I believe, is that of my beloved ones. 
This is a true picture of our home : 


404 


STEPPING HE A VENWARD. 


A sick-room full of the suffering that ravages 
the body, but cannot touch the soul. A worn, 
wasting mother ministered unto by a devoted, 
saintly husband, and by unselfish, Christian 
children. Some of the peace of God, if not all 
of it, shines in every face, is heard in every 
tone. It is a home that typifies and foreshadows 
the home that is perfect and eternal. 

Our dear Helen has been given us for this 
emergency. Is it not strange that seeing our 
domestic life should have awakened in her some 
yearnings for a home and a heart and children 
of her own. She has said that there was a 
w r eary point in her life when she made up her 
mind that she was never to know these joys. 
But she accepted her lot gracefully. I do not 
know any other word that describes so w T ell the 
beautiful offering she made of her life, first to God, 
and then to us. He accepted it, and has given 
her all the cares and responsibilities of domestic 
life, without the transcendent joys that sustain the 
wife and the mother. She has been all in all to 
our children, and God has been all in all to her. 
And she is happy in His service and in our love. 

Junk 13. — It took me nearly two weeks 

to write the above, at intervals, as my strength 
allowed. Ernest has consented to my finishing 
this volume, of which so few pages yet remain. 
And he let me see a dear old friend who came 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


405 


all the way from my native town to see me — 
Dr. Eaton, our family physician as long as I 
could remember. He is of an advanced age, but 
full of vigor, his eye bright and with a healthful 
glow on his cheek. But he says he is waiting 
and longing for his summons home. About that 
home we had a delightful talk together that did 
my very heart good. Then he made me tell 
him about this long sickness and the years of 
frail health and some of the sorrows through 
which I had toiled. 

‘ ‘ Ah , these lovely children are explained now, ’ ’ 
he said. 

“Do you really think,” I asked, “that it has 
been good for my children to have a feeble, 
afflicted mother? ” 

“ Yes, I really think so. A disciplined mother 
— disciplined children.” 

This comforting thought is one of the last 
drops in a cup of felicity already full. 

Junk 20. — Another Sunday, and all at 

church except my darling Una who keeps watch 
over her mother. These Sundays, when I have 
had them each alone in turn, have been blessed 
days to them and to me. Surely this is some 
compensation for what they lose in me of health 
and vigor. I know the state of each soul as 
far as it can be known, and have every reason 
to believe that my children all love my Saviour 


406 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


and are trying to live for Him. I have learned, 
at last, not to despise the day of small things, 
to cherish the tenderest blossom, and to expect 
my dear ones to be imperfect before they become 
perfect Christians. 

Una is a sweet, composed young girl, now 
eighteen years old, and what can I say more of 
the love her brothers bear her than this : they 
never tease her. She has long ceased asking why 
she must have delicate health, when so many 
others of her age are full of animal life and 
vigor, but stands in her lot and place doing what 
she can, suffering what she must, with a meek- 
ness that makes her lovely in my eyes, and that 
I am sure unites her closely to Christ. 

June 27. — It was Raymond’s turn to stay 

with me to-day. He opened his heart to me 
more freely than he had ever done before. 

“Mamma,” he began, “if papa is willing, I 
have made up my mind — that is to say if I ever 
get decently good — to go on a mission.” 

I said, playfully, “And mamma’s consent is 
not to be asked ? ’ ’ 

“ No, ” he said getting hold of what there is left 
of my hand, “ I know you wouldn’t say a word. 
Don’t you remember telling me once, when I was 
a little boy, that I might go and welcome?” 

“And don’t you remember,” I returned, 
“that you cried for joy, and then relieved your 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


407 


mind still farther, by walking on your hands, 
with your feet in the air? ” 

We both laughed heartily at this remembrance 
and then I said : 

“My dear boy, you know your father’s plan 
for you ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know he expects me to study with 
him, and take his place in the world.’’ 

“And it is a very important place.” 

His countenance fell as he fancied I was not 
entering heartily into his wishes. 

“Dear Raymond,” I w 7 ent on, “I gave you 
to God long before you gave yourself to Him. 
If He can make you useful in your own, or in 
other lands, I bless His name. Whether I live 
to see you a man, or not, I hope you will work 
in the Rord’s vineyard, wherever He calls. I 
never asked anything for you but usefulness, in 
all my prayers for you ; never once.” His eyes 
filled with tears ; he kissed me, and walked 
away to the window to compose himself. My 
poor, dear, lovable, loving boy ! He has all his 
mother’s trials and struggles to contend with; 
but what matter it if they bring him the same 
peace? 


Junk 30. — Everybody wonders to see me 

once more interested in my long-closed journal, 
and becoming able to see the dear friends from 
whom I have been, in a measure, cut off. We 


408 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


cannot ask the meaning of this remarkable in- 
crease of strength. 

I have no wish to choose. But I have come 
to the last page of my Journal, and living or 
dying, shall write in this volume no more. It 
closes upon a life of much childishness and great 
sinfulness, whose record makes me blush with 
shame, but I no longer need to relieve my heart 
with seeking sympathy in its unconscious pages, 
nor do I believe it well to go on analyzing it as 
I have done. I have had large experience of 
both joy and sorrow ; I have seen the nakedness 
and the emptiness, and I have seen the beauty 
and sweetness of life. What I have to say now, 
let me say to Jesus. What time and strength 
I used to spend in writing here, let me now 
spend in praying for all men, for all sufferers, 
for all who are out of the way, for all whom 
I love. And their name is kegion, for I love 
everybody. 

Yes, I love everybody ! That crowning joy 
has come to me at last. Christ is in my soul ; 
He is mine ; I am as conscious of it as that my 
husband and children are mine ; and His Spirit 
flows forth from mine in the calm peace of a 
river whose banks are green with grass and glad 
with flowers. If I die, it will be to leave a 
wearied and w T orn body, and a sinful soul, to 
go joyfully to be with Christ, to weary and to 
sin no more. If I live I shall find much blessed 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


409 


work to do for Him. So living or dying, I shall 
be the Lord’s. 

But I wish, oh, how earnestly, that whether I 
go or stay, I could inspire some lives with the joy 
that is now mine. For many years I have been 
rich in faith ; rich in an unfaltering confidence 
that I was beloved of my God and Saviour. But 
something was wanting ; I was ever groping for 
a mysterious grace the want of which made me 
often sorrowful in the very midst of my most 
sacred joy, imperfect when I most longed for 
perfection. It was that personal love to Christ of 
which my precious mother so often spoke to me, 
which she often urged me to seek upon my 
knees. If I had known then, as I know now, 
•what this priceless treasure could be to a sinful 
human .soul, I would have sold all that I had 
to buy the field wherein it lay hidden. But not 
till I was shut up to prayer and to the study of 
God’s word by the loss of earthly joys, sickness 
destroying the flavor of them all, did I begin 
to penetrate the mystery that is learned under 
the cross. And wondrous as it is how simple 
is this mystery ! To love Christ, and to know 
that I love Him — that is all ! 

And when I entered upon the sacred yet oft- 
times homely duties of married life, if this love 
had been mine, how would that life have been 
transfigured ! The petty faults of my husband 
under which I chafed, would not have moved 


4io 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 


me ; I should have welcomed Martha and her 
father to my home and made them happy there ; 
I should have had no conflicts with my ser- 
vants, shown no petulance to my children. For 
it would not have been I who spoke and acted, 
but Christ who lived in me. 

Alas ! I have had less than seven years in 
which to atone for a sinful, wasted past, and to 
live a new and a Christ-like life. If I am yet to 
have more, thanks be to him who has given me 
the victory, that life will be hove. Not the love 
that rests in the contemplation and adoration of 
its object ; but the love that gladdens, sweetens, 
solaces other lives. 

O gift of gifts ! O grace of faith ! 

My God ! how can it be 

That Thou, who hast discerning love, 
Shouldst give that gift to me ? 

How many hearts thou mightst have had 
More innocent than mine ! 

How many souls more worthy far 
Of that sweet touch of Thine ! 

Oh, grace ! into unlikeliest hearts 
It is thy boast to come, 

The glory of Thy light to find 
In darkest spots a home. 

Oh, happy, happy that I am ! 

If thou canst be, O faith, 

The treasure that thou art in life 
What wilt thou be in death ? 




















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